The 1st Day Of Harvest
Anticipated like Christmas,
it appears like an old friend
at the door. Sun warmed waves
of wheat, acres of ripe grain
swell and ripple, rattle applause
with the wind. Poised, the combine
waits, hungry for work. We tinker
around the machine—slap drive
belts for tightness, search
for missed zerks not yet greased.
Sieves and screens are aligned,
sickle teeth re-inspected. Oil levels
are checked again. Pliers fall
into pockets. Dad starts the engine.
Every nut and bolt shakes
with the first rush of fuel.
Smoke, black diesel, spot-stains
the air. Crawling, the combine
tastes the crop, harvests its first
bite of bread. Dry as crust,
chaff and wheat dust sparkle
around us. Knee-deep
in the warm wake of fresh-cut
stubble, my brother and I wade
into the field. The day’s heat
spills over our backs as we explore
handfuls of straw, search the ground
for leftovers. Young again, Grandpa
watches the combine carve faster
into the shimmer of uncut wheat.
Soon, we will all be running.
The 3rd Day Of Harvest
No one thing
is out of rhythm.
Wind is everywhere.
Loose like a child
in the back yard.
Hot to run wild
for the other side
of the fence.
It plays around us.
Teamed with the sun.
Turns our skin dark.
Makes us sweat.
Kindles consciousness
of work. Spellbound
combines graze across
fields like buffalo.
Anxious for the next
bite. Belches of straw
unfurl like flags
behind them. Steered
down dirt roads
trucks moan toward
town. A billion
billion grains
of wheat, a Universe
of stars, heaped
upon their back.
A red-tailed hawk
side-slips
to the next field
and returns. A paint
brush stroke.
Breakdown
"Right out in the
middle of the field. Damn
the luck," Grandpa said. "Whew! It's hot."
2:20 p.m., 4th day
Stretched an arm’s
reach into the combine’s
guts, I two-finger
fumble the first
threads of a short
bolt into a hole
the size of a dime.
His hands mangled
with grease, Dad
holds the new heart
of the paralyzed
machine awkwardly
in place---tells me
to hurry, curses
the steel pin
to help take the weight
from his back.
Patience drips
from our muscles,
soaks into our shirts.
Holstered in dirty
pants, tools sag
from back pockets
anxious for a tight
quick-draw
turn on a fresh
part’s loose
nut. A pulse
to everything
reattached.
A Tired Farmer Goes To Town
Fifth day
A locally scattered thundershower
comes through on a full stoked
locomotive wind, and slams
past his house. He gets out of bed
to watch, and stands there
in the storm's confused
reflection, more a shadow
than a man. Raindrops.
big as boots,
kick at the windows.
Then it's over.
The farmer can't sleep.
At first light
he gets in his pick-up
and goes to look at his land.
The sun rides up
on a clear sky, a shiny spot
on a porcelain plate.
An eye-batting breeze
flirts with the damp
flour scent of a delayed
harvest. At the 5-mile corner
the farmer knows that he has drawn
out of a full-house.
He looks at his field
like it was never there.
When hail comes, size don't
matter. Five minutes
of the pea-sized stuff
is all it takes
to iron a wheat field
flat. He is tired
and considers never going home.
At the restaurant, some men
are not tired at all. Conversation
spills across the contour
of damage. To stop the erosion,
they pull their best jokes
out of their pockets and plant them
between cups of coffee. Before noon
the farmer antes, and goes back
into his country. He greases his combine
and enjoys the dust.
Originally Published in
Kansas Quarterly, 1993, V.24, N.4
The 7th Day Of Harvest:
An Exhausted Farmer Sits In The Dark
11:20 p.m.
Too tired to be tired the farmer
shuts off the combine.
For what weighs
like the rest of his life
he sits there glad to be absorbed
by the husk of night. All this,
just before the whole day feels
itself back into his body.
The machine’s dormant motion
reverberates through his legs,
numbs his back, quivers the palms
of his hands. Silenced, the engine’s
deep, diesel howl still echoes
in his ears. Sun-stitched dirt
grows to his face, holds hot
to his arms. Thoughts
elude him. Maybe insane,
the farmer closes his eyes
and sees the long, wide, reel
that today, like the days before,
turned in front of him stroke,
after stroke, after stroke,
as it paddled crests of wheat
into the machine’s belly round,
after round. Sun. Sky. Field.
Kansas placed before him
like some gift given to a god.
Just a man, the farmer
concedes to later ask his wife
the name of yesterday or today.
Both feet on the ground he feels
for balance, grabs what pieces
he can find. He looks toward
space and perceives the stars.
Mimics of fireflies flash
into constellations. Crickets
chirp, buzz, and hum themselves
into some accepted, undetermined
rhythm. Tomorrow already,
the purpose certain,
there is no time for rest.
Originally Published in
Comstock Review, 2003, V.17, N.2
|
Wheat Fields
Grain. Bushels
of copper kernels
shimmer in rows
attached to saluting
battalions of thin,
straw stalks
poised to be cut
on heat-cured days
by tired men rich
with sweat, and heavy
machines, all moving
across fields one
swath at a time
before next year's
seeds are placed
in the ground,
again
Back to Top
From The Wheat Trucker’s Seat
Most trips I make alone. A slow haul
charted along a rough, dirt road route
toward town. A pilgrimage---my truck
loaded too heavy with wheat. Dust sails
billow from beneath my tires, push me
across a broad country table. Waves
of yellow-varnished fields sway in harvest
ripe rhythm. Others rest. Dried remains
from a combine’s wake, cut stubble calm.
Saturated with summer, heat crowds the cab;
sweat drains down my back. At the five
mile corner my foot saddles the clutch.
My arm stretches deep into the transmission.
Gears juggle. Strained, second blends
into third. Third relaxes into fourth. Inlaid
on a warm wind, the triple thrill trill of an unseen
meadowlark courses through open windows.
Chaff swirls, twists, floats from the floorboard
and flirts around my face. One fly side-steps
with monotony across the dash. On the coast,
my Mecca. Elevators. Tall pillared monuments,
shimmer like ghosts. I meet the red Chevy.
The gray Dodge, the yellow Ford---faces blurred
behind bug blotched windshields. We always wave
---the cowboy, the green scarfed woman, the guy
with the Cargill cap, the shirtless kid. Cargo dumped,
late for more, they drive panic-fast. In the middle
of fields combine drivers wait for their first far
glimpse of a dusty, rattle-bounced blur shaped
by an empty truck. Straw surrenders. Grain churns
into wheat bins almost full. In town, over-filled
trucks line the streets, bumper to bumper,
linked in over-heated homage. The elevator
towers above us---an idol we wait our turn to visit,
deliver our families' treasure to the gods. Trapped,
I sit here in a hurry, full of everything but time.
Originally Published in
KC Show & Tell, 2000, Anthology
Back to Top
Lunch Time
6:25
p.m.
Quart jars of ice tea
sweat with cool.
Dirty faces and tired
hands ask for more.
Harvest surrounds us.
Backs lean against
the truck--a wind
break, a puddle
of shade. Hats
hang on knees.
Lemonade shivers
in glasses. Dad
tallies dead flies.
Each one dazed
with a slap. "Roast
beef or ham salad
sandwiches?" "Pass
the fried chicken."
"Some salt, please".
"Potato salad?"
"Thanks, Mom". Bits
of tomorrow's
plans shuttle
between bites.
Banana peels flop
into wheat stubble
like carp. Chocolate
chips in cookies melt.
"Take another." Hot
wind crowds between
us. ”Strawberry
Jell-O? It's almost
gone. Potato chips?"
Grandpa belches
fulfillment. Dirt blows
onto the brownies.
A lump of muscles,
my brother stretches
sleep across a blanket.
Combines idle behind
us, tethered dinosaurs
hungry for the next round.
Back to Top
An Old Farmer Walks With Sundown
"His thinking is clear,
even from where I sit."
8:55p.m., 6th day
Marooned with age
Grandpa drifts
across the field,
his boots deep
in stubble, each
step deliberate.
Behind him waves
of years swell up
and break, shower
him with the withered
glitter of some old
day's recollection.
The sun dissolves.
Evening gathers
around him,
content.
A sentinel,
he watches us work.
Our machines lope
across the field.
Whirlwinds of dust
and chaff shaken
freshly from cut
wheat rise up,
twist into shapes
of dead horses,
old tractors,
and tired men’s
faces. Each harvest
is his last.
Originally Published
in
Mid America Review, 2002, V.3, N.2,
Back to Top
The Last Day Of Harvest
You climb up and check the oil
same as all the other days,
grease the machine in all the hidden
places until you know
it'll run slick.
Then you start the engine,
feel every nut and bolt
brace against the first surge
of fuel. And maybe
you feel like the old man
who knows tonight is the last night
he will have to climb into bed. Field
past field, you think
back trying to remember
how good the first harvest day
felt---how the heat,
and wheat dust welcomed you
like a mother's challenge
to walk. Acre after acre, grain
has bouquet'd into your throat,
your steel cylinder gut
digesting load after load---hours
monogrammed inside this cab
when you felt like a combine king,
your country a kingdom stretched
to the horizon's black-thread
crease. More hours you were nothing
---a wrench tightened instinct
lifting and lowering
the header, suggesting the machine
faster and slower, internal sounds
felt before heard, metal and rubber.
Then you live it,
the last round, a narrow swath
where you've never been, tied down
by a row of uncut corners,
tokens from every round,
leading to the road.
And then it's over.
Nothing left but stubble.
The last uncut corner
cut. A good friend gone.
Originally Published in
Kansas Quarterly, 1993, V.24, N.4 |
