Ark in the Field

One morning you open one eye and listing to the south it bulks like a barn, noiseless, derelict planks horizontal and deeply grooved. A rudder the size of your front door pivots as you push. Once inside you can smell the fear of every winged, creeping and four-legged thing: no water, no straw, just shadow and bare wood. Where is the one promised to wake beside you forever? Ox-eyed daisies, goldenrod, clover— why are you breathing among them, why don't you gather the outcast beasts or become one...