Page 38 - WTP Vol. IX #10

31
The Donkeys Stand on the Manure Pile
At the far corner of their field
the donkeys climb the manure pile
a small mountain, barely foot room for eight hooves. The first spring thaw has softened
the top layer, but below, it’s frozen still,
solid as any boulder the glacier left behind.
Not designed for climbing trees
not inclined to give each other a lift up
this is the only way they can see
what has been unseen before.
Perched like plastic brides on a wedding cake
they survey the new world.
Everything they ate all season
has been transformed.
Steam rises from the exertion of bacteria
turning what was once manure
to soil, to be changed someday into grass again. But they are not studying the metamorphosis beneath their hooves, but looking outward:
A white van progressing along the street
the lid of each metal mailbox snapping into place, a puff of smoke each time the van starts up again, A small dog and a woman, tethered by a rope
the dog running, sniffing from spot to spot,
the woman just behind,
The pond beyond the trees where two mallards now circle black water that yesterday was white. Having achieved these extra feet of vision
the donkeys won’t come down.
CoRinne deMas