Crawling Without Feet

women that smoke cigars, and books that start with the ending. the things dogs smell written underneath stones. the day guns rise up and walk out, in utter protest. the long trek cows and pigs and fish make, on the way to becoming part of you. the sound potatoes make when you dig them... the fire you built before you built it! the things green beans whisper in the rain, the groan of tomatoes ripening. the sound of rust and leaves turning, the name written in the first autumn chill. the day we left the sea, crawling without feet to the land. and the day we'll return, utter failures, or with the memory of a thousand small victories.