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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.
IĀ 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.