If you always wanted to farm, but never did, you would not need to decide what to do with a baby chick that limped and dragged its wing but lived for weeks.
You would not weigh the possibility of contagion against the possibility of recovery.
You would not finger your lumpy purse of obligations, considering how much time you might lose.
You would not lift the golden bird from its hospital pen to watch it nestle down next to the earth and cock its head sideways to study you with suspicion.
You would not stand in a field of clover rustling in the sweet wind and shoulder the weight of the job before you.
You would not kneel in the clover when the job was done.
You would not feel yourself drift beyond your tumbling fence lines into a glittering ocean of corn, which would receive you completely and close over your head.
You would not discover that you could breathe under this sea, but that words all drown.
You would not allow your body to lift you like a competent mother and carry you to the garage where the shovels hang.
You would not live without words for a while, swaying to rhythms you knew before you were born.
You would not know if you were really home.
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