In the Fields, Growing Green

Take the biting creatures
netted from the brackish water
in the bay
and carry them, still writhing,
to the empty fields
where they’ll rot in the Sun.
Let them feed the earth if it’s hungry,
and what’s beneath (if it’s hungry),
and come again at daybreak to gather-up
the bones.

Smell the edges of decay
through the open windows, the curtains
tied back with silk sashes,
breeze-blowing:

what was half-salted
and thrived in that warm water,
in that living soup,
what fed the hungry lips
beneath the surface, angled teeth,
now oozes swampy green, then black,
then turns red dirt.

Take a walk
through those soppy fields
at daybreak, when droplets hang
from drooping leaves.
When steam rises
between the browning windrows,
remember that there is
something breathing there
just beneath your feet.

Take a walk again at sunset,
after the grass has cooled quite a bit.
See it sweat again soon, ready for night,
ready for the crickets
and sing-song cicadas,
ready for the things
that raise their quick little heads,
more confident come dark.
Wait for the sound of screeching owls
and throaty frog sex.

The holes are everywhere.
Watch your step.

They thrive on nothing, wanting;
they take whatever’s left behind.
See the holes too big for rodents,
far too big.
Watch, now, and be careful
not to turn your ankle
when you’re stepping so far down.