Flooded Farmland

As Tufts and stubbles arose from their not-so-ephemeral wat’ry fiefdoms,

Thrush and blackbird alike chanted and despaired for company of woman or worm,

Neither of which could be drawn by sound or from deluged ground

While under pre-dawns’ gloomy shroud.

And then the night and clouds did laboriously peel back:

Like the eyelids of the morning,

Shattering the mantle as they scraped reluctantly over the sleepy land.

And slowly, the bushy-tailed sun dilated its distant pupil, casting its burning glare over this now futile farmland. 

At that moment the mottled swamp became a conflagration of rippled terracotta, gold, and rose.

And so, Helios stood taller and taller:

unbuckling his vertebrae and wiping the sleep from his omniscient orb.

Now the flooded field could reminisce on the cool and quiet night.

Its once pastoral purpose quashed, the landscape had no more use than what it resembled,

A masterful work of art.

And now the thrush, elated by that morning sun, flew to his highest perch and thundered his repertoire in the golden, gleaming light,

his exclamations louder than Icarus’ last lamentations.

But still no partner was persuaded, despite his deft denunciations of this watery wrap.

And still the blackbird screamed for a waterless worm.

The fox whooped and howled for a non-moist mouse.

The cows moaned and groaned to once again stumble on unsubmerged substrate.

Every ear of corn, muffled by the depths, worried at the ticking of the seasons.

The sun began to stoop as evening set in,

With it, ripples appeared in this placid puddle from faint droplets.

And so, the showers returned, and the sun was slowly veiled by those heavy and relentless eyelids of the evening.

As the animals did, the sky now too seemed to weep for such beautiful redundancy. 

As the last suggestion of gold gave way to the early rays of silver,

A gossiping flock of mallards slipped through the lashes of the night.

This fowl-flooded farmland had once again found its purpose, cow’s domain turned mallard’s marsh, for one beast’s trash is another beast’s treasure.

And the drakes and the hens, gizzards replete with swollen crops, pillaged and plundered the yeoman’s yard.

Like bankers at a bankruptcy auction: they gobbled up great swathes of the farmer’s biotic bank account.

And finally, as the fire died in the empyreal iris; the carnal complaints stopped.

The riparian residents started their nightly quietening, and on this fortuitous lake fell a spell of deep tranquillity.

At last,

It seemed,

The ducks had found a purpose in liquidity.