Insure that which you have grown.

You’ll have a number assigned to a value for the things you have put into the soil.

After the storm hits, a man will walk with you through the decimated rows of what you have planted.

There will be a gesture or a word or a sound he makes and, suddenly, you know he knows what it means to sow an empty field, to will the rain to come, for the sun to warm a buried seed, roots to claw down and wheat to praise, become golden, then be threshed by icy stones, hewn by the same god, honored by that bounty.

He knows the winters, too.

This man knows there is no cold number for the smell of oil and dirt and old rubber, for the sweat and the unrequited labor. You’ll walk across the ditch to the gravel, stand under the sky, listen to the red-winged blackbird and agree: perhaps there is an amount.