Unsinkable Chowder,

you beautiful sow,

braving the loud, torrential

waters rushing down

around your pink ankles.

The fences are gone.

The mud may be swift, but 

you are imminent and 

belly-forward. Calm, stoic,

nose downward while the land

slides away. This is no soil creep.

You withstand a desperate surge,

the great brown river upturning 

the roots, uprooting the spiders,

drowning the worms, nuzzling  

the gravity of Earth’s paths, pushing you

back, master of elements, as we coax 

your body’s return to dry land.

And you make it. Aren’t you furious?

We left you no solid ground. You still

search for oats to eat 

in the floating patches

of sweet green grass.