I am who I am. A coincidence no less unthinkable than any other.

I could have different ancestors, after all, I could have fluttered from another nest or crawled bescaled from under another tree.

Nature’s wardrobe holds a fair supply of costumes: spider, seagull, field mouse. Each fits perfectly right off and is dutifully worn into shreds.

I didn’t get a choice either, but I can’t complain. I could have been someone much less separate. Someone from an anthill, shoal, or buzzing swarm, an inch of landscape tousled by the wind.

Someone much less fortunate, bred for my fur or Christmas dinner, something swimming under a square of glass.

A tree rooted to the ground as the fire draws near.

A grass blade trampled by a stampede of incomprehensible events.

A shady type whose darkness dazzled some.

What if I’d prompted only fear, loathing, or pity?

If I’d been born in the wrong tribe, with all roads closed before me?

Fate has been kind to me thus far.

I might never have been given the memory of happy moments.

My yen for comparison might have been taken away.

I might have been myself minus amazement, that is, someone completely different.

~ Wisława Szymborska, “Among The Multitudes”, Poems New and Collected (Mariner Books, November 16, 2000)