There was a time when my fields had dried and my chains all rusted. Dirt would creep up my body, like moss.

I filled my tub up with poison oak and bleach. Let myself soak a while. Just until the water turned pink.

I was a drought in the middle of grow season. Even the thin whispy clouds avoided the cast of my throe.

Feathers would come back on the skin of the bird, and I held her down, gripped the pliers in my calloused hand, and plucked them each back out, slowly.

I knew the crops were not dead, yet. I could feel them struggling to find light, beneath my thick blanket of calamity, sewn together with vengeance.

A dry day in May, one single yellowish- green stem poked itself up high enough to see the sun. I glared at it with confusion.

Almost faster than their legs could keep up, my two little chicks ran to the stem to investigate. I watched.

“There’s nothing to keep it alive here, ya hear?!”

I followed with heavy feet as the chicks fled downhill into the distance. What young, naive little chicks.

When I see them coming back towards me, I am blinded by the reflection of the sun.

It is not until they pass by me to lead the way home, that I see how ignorant I have been.

The water cascades from the spout of the watering can, showering the stem with the nourishment I couldn’t provide.