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    Grass Fire

     

    by Cassandra Farrin

    ​

    ​

    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.

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