Why I Go For Walks: A Found Poem

For years I have walked
Down an old fencerow
That borders what remains
Of an old farm.
The fields, once plowed and seeded each spring,
Are returning, once again, to forest.
On an old fence post,
That leans hard over in the shadow
Of a mid-grown sycamore,
Hangs a battered galvanized bucket.
Each day when I pass it
I stop to look into its depths.
How many autumns it has hung there
I do not know, but over the years
Leaves have fallen into it,
Rain and snow have too.
The leaves have held the moisture,
And in doing so have rotted.
Nuts, too, have fallen into it,
Or were brought there by squirrels,
Which ate the meat and left the shells;
They and other animals have left their droppings;
Insects have entered it died and decayed;
Birds have scratched in it
Left their droppings,
Maybe a feather or two.
This slow work of death and decay,
The chief work of the world,
Has produced in the bottom of this bucket
Several inches of loam, rich soil.
Maybe because I am a farmer,
I am drawn by an easy wonder
to witness this miracle every day.
To a townsmans eye, this is only filth,
If it is seen at all.
To me it is, for all of its simplicity,
The Book of Genesis redux.