Ode to Dung and Community

A soft foot with a swollen ankle
Steps surreptitiously on slippery pebbles,
The off-hand moo or hog snort startles
As he approaches the animal pens,
A delicately putrid smell of dust, dung, and urine
Fill his senses for a brief moment,
But are soon replaced by other sensations,
Those of labor.

Sweat dripping across a brow, blisters forming on
Foreign regions of the hands that grapple with
Daily tasks.

Twisting corn, digging beds, mulching rows,
Milking,walking, lifting, breathing,
Then, at the precipice of exhaustion,
Fruits emerge.

Conclusive sensations in tasting the freshly picked and grown,
Milked and boiled, slaughtered and plucked , seasoned and dried and fried.
The calluses and sensations accumulate for seventy days,
Eroding away former fits of anxiety and attachment,
Loosening the eyes and the mind,
Open now to insights of dung and community.