Stealing the Cow Manure

Last night, under a full moon,
I'm instructed by my wife,
—coveting the black treasure—

to retrieve the shovel
with the yellow handle
from the barn, creep

across the backyard, past
the small greenhouse,
the compost pit,

toward the next field
and the mounds backlit
by stars, of the cow manure

Randy the farmer unloaded
from his dump trunk,
and scoop out two pails worth—

it mattered, this organic matter,
this soil-nurturer we'll layer
and spread into our raised beds.

This waste will not go to waste:
bless the beasts.
Don't tell the neighbors.