Only hard clay could keep this land
From relaxing into the lake.
A hard rain could turn turf to sog
And slip straight out the bay.
But she’ll not do that
Not rehearse dinner party magic
And amaze us all with how towns still stand
⎯ Perhaps here and then a cow topples.
Perhaps the farmers fear she might
And so let stand plots of trees in their fields
To staple the spongy soil to hard clay
Saving their silos from a saltshaker’s fate.

—Sean Butner, Green Bay, WI