Furrows

 

We live under the pink bellies of roving clouds.

At our flanks, silver waters uncoil and pull into winding rivers.

In neat furrows and raised beds, we sow bits and seeds of things.

We’ve penned the softer animals.

And our shelters are solid as bollards.

 

We have a problem.

A god problem.

 

The rains come when they please, not when needed.

Our seeds sprout crooked, and the starts wither.

The river now teems with bony and unpalatable crawlers.

 

Clearly, someone among us—or all of us—has offended our gods.

 

Some whisper we must plant squirming things.

Some suggest we stamp in dry ground

and lift our own clouds of gray dust.

The elders speak of freeing the soft animals,

but their eyes do not meet ours.

For now, our furrows lie open, hungry as mouths.

 

—Mitchell Hegman