I bend down
between green blades of rye to ponder the dirt
and the ants marching to and fro,
carrying sweet morsels down
down beneath the earth
like soldiers on a trail to the Western colonies.
This earth is my manifest destiny.
The earthworms lay claim to it all.
They are kings of the humus,
layers of silence slowly enmeshing the
exudate of roots,
bodies of the fallen,
fecal matter of swifter creatures aflight.
I feel down
beneath green blades of rye to ponder the dirt
and the universe spilt out before me.
A grand conflagration: protozoa and microbe, bacteria and mycorrhiza
battling to the ultimate, inevitable death.
A billion unspoken souls waging holy war
in a teaspoon of jet black soil?
I look up at the sky,
back down at the earth.
A hundred thousand times.
I remember only how small that world is,
that teaspoon of soil
slowly dissolving in the rain.
A small puddled remnant of precipitation
gathered in the heel of my bootprint.
And so it is with me.
A farmer amongst the deepening night sky,
and the gathering of stars.