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The Mud Patch

 

Wood pigeons coon

Amid a backdrop of chirps

Murmuring the long end of winter.

Thin glass streams the outside

through bare white windows.

for a moment my breathe precipitates in the white light.

 

Crouched in the mud

I kneed dank earth

Forking through worms and beetles

Root and seed

Loosened and turned

Piece by piece.

 

I mold this ball of clay

pressed between dirty palms

Overcast drizzle

spattering against my face.

Now, soaked and content

Each clod is unpacked

Aired, ready for seeds.

I  had expected it to be dead.

but beneath the faded top layer it has burst forth

Squirming, alive, oblivious to our cares.

 

Breathe it in, root down toes and hands

Plant myself in the wet and muddy ground.