Every once in a while I get my wish
of sixty years to drive tractor, little boots
breaking clods behind a disk–the loud,
unmuffled power lurching in the hands
of one man turning the ground up
with bugs and worms, clouds of backbirds
drawn like seagulls trailing fishing boats
on the ocean. The diesel purrs metallically,
the local crows and ravens glide low
over tractor and disk breaking into the earth.
Even the old red horse recognizes me
perched on this new contraption, sweet
smell of damp dirt and wants to play
along the fence, paw and roll–just
something attractive about a tractor.
drycrikjournal 