Red. Orange. White.

Boards. Beams. Batton.

Barn burns in bits.

Coals throb with heat.

Cold surrounds the fire.

We turn,

like a rotisserie,

to keep both sides warm.

Staring into flames,

watching memories of years,

vaporizing into smoke.

The labors of the farmers,

their work and worry,

incinerated into tiny particles.

Smoke barn bits drifting towards clouds,

coalescing moisture,

turning to raindrops,

that nurture the cornfield.

“Of course I will,” I say.

I wear the hat and the badge

(with my chosen pronouns).

My shoes are gone,

to assure I’ll stay.

I lead the prayer to Gaia,

or something or someone,

not a church god yet.

I talk of the sacrifice.

At once, I shudder,

fall to my knees.

I cry out in anguish.

“She’s telling me.”

They stir like hive-mates,

ready to obey their queen.

“She tells me.” I swoon.

“Spare the virgin. He is the one.

Cut him down. Embrace him.

Women, he must father your children!”

Then I fein fainting, fall to the earth,

or to Gaia, or the ground.

They run to him with adulation.

Now I am done.

The soon-to-be-ex-virgin

will be very busy,

while I find my shoes.