I am standing in the garden at Adam’s Farm, 
my first year digging in this plot, spaded
shovel for the virgin turning, using the point 
to break roots, shaking the dirt off grass clumps, 
clearing fringes. I am aware of black birds 
above me, circling slowly, vultures, lining up 
for the feast like hearses queueing at a funeral.

They are singing, like the Pequod’s crew
following a harpooned sperm whale,
Hill and Gully Rider. Look,
there is Queequeg, all sinew and tattoos,
in the prow of the whaleboat, feeding out
cable in the wake of the onrushing leviathan,
unconsciously speeding toward oblivion.

They call out to me, “slow down Big Boy – 
we’ll join you for supper, we will.”
I continue to dig. Meanwhile, raucous robins
gather around me, tucking in their dinner
napkins, appreciative of all the freshly turned
annelids, grazed and glistening in the newly
exposed earth, my gift to them this Saturday.