Headlights dancing down orchard rows,
silhouettes of men, half-loaded bob-tail
stuck in mud, getting oranges in
before the next rain and forecast freeze.
Unmuffled tractor groaning over shouts,
tight chain—there was no quittin’ time
around Christmas in those days, no room
for church or grammar school recitals:
God helped those who helped themselves,
who made hay while the sun shined.
It’s all we really knew of the world:
it took all year to raise a crop to sell.
Before non-cultivation, stinging nettles
high in a young boy’s face, I followed men
swamping field boxes into the night,
and couldn’t imagine a higher calling.
drycrikjournal 