Ovid should have written into his heavens,
how fire gathers wind
fiber, thread, and strand
and snaps it rhythmically in taut cords over chastened fields,
an industrial grade cat-o-nine
hissing through the atmosphere.
A woman poised
(her fields are burning)
on the dirt drive between her chicken coop
and the river
observes that after thirty seconds and a gust of wind
everything is gone.
Chicks, just yesterday pulled from the incubator,
hid under the black plastic water trough.
All but one died.
The question is whether she will.
She’s a silo in that place; she’s storing up.
She’s casting a tall, concrete shadow.
From inside her comes a golden swarming of infinite value.
Her capacity scares her.
She has already lived up to this moment
but no further.