Put a blue tarpaulin over it, cover over the compost. The sun, smoke-stained, beats down on the pile. High noon, not the alcoholic beverage. I give diatribes to the dung that I step in, that the cattle excrete from their bowels before dawn. Dew-point mysteries are gone now, late in the day. I bale hay, ride the tractor, and make rituals out of calves and chaos. It’s no hassle, I guess. Raised on small-town roads and flatlander mentalities. It’s lake trout at dusk and tucked in by ten. It’s all rope and rodeo here, midwest veins that bleed an American flag. I get it. It is all stars, stripes, and spur-of-the moment bonfires. Barebacked, barely. Apologies in my front lip, spit dip near the creek. It’s 20-miles to the nearest town. Jump in.

L.W.