Flooded Farmland

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

Thrush and blackbird alike chant and despair for company of woman or worm,

Neither which can be drawn by sound or from deluged ground

While under pre-dawn’s gloomy shroud.

And then the night and clouds did laboriously peel back:

Like the eyelids of the morning,

Shattering hemispheres as they scraped reluctantly over the sleepy earth.

And slowly, the bushy-tailed sun dilated it’s distant pupil, casting it’s 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.

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 precipitation.

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.

For this feathered fowl flooded farmland forfeits futility, cow’s domain turned mallard’s marsh, for one beast’s trash is another beast’s treasure.

And finally, as the lashes of the night interlocked; 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,

Unlike the farmer,

Who seldom gleamed,

The ducks had found a purpose in liquidity.