Dust-Devil In July
Spawned
by a nervous wind
it grows
rising and falling
through the sky
flexing its new found
strength in a rush
bounding forward in blowing dust
along a winding path
its tail snapping
in a frenzy
seeking traction
on the earth
as it fades
away
Originally Published in
Prairie Poetry, 2001, June
Late Edition Forecast
It is darker than it should be
at night. The crickets are nervous.
They don't talk. The dog waits
under the porch, and the cats
can't decide where to go.
Standing in the stubble field
north of the house
I see light escape from an open
window. It runs to a tree out back,
then hangs limply
with the leaves.
Cathedral silence fumbles in the air
anxious for a place
to pause. The cloud is there, somewhere,
defining itself on restless winds
sinking roots deeper
into the fusing blackness.
Soon, I will have to go home.
Originally Published in
Alaska Quarterly, 1988, V.6, N.3
A Farmer’s Son, Age 14,
Experiences The Mechanics of Nature
Polished from the dull color of an old notion,
the farmer’s son discovers the glimmer
of a new idea camouflaged
behind the routine of years. The boy
seizes the discovery—the top 2 bolts
inserted first, the bottom 2 nuts
tightened second—a sensible, simple
plan that he places before his father,
the farmer, first heir to the callus
of habits passed on by his own father.
Ignored, the farmer's son re-endows
the inspiration. His hands deep
in yesterday’s grease the farmer
curses the interruption. His words
thick with ritual, explains —"That’s
the way we’ve always done it, and that’s
the way we’re gonna do it today.”
Mirrored in the past, the farmer’s son
stands there in the muck of stubbornness.
and swears that he will never age.
Later, the boy’s mother observes
her son where she has also observed
her husband, doing the same thing
for the same reason—standing alone
along the driveway, near the mailbox,
looking one direction down the dirt road,
and then the other.
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A Disgusted Farmer Takes A Day Off
Late July
Since yesterday's Farm Futures
fell the limit because of rain
in Chicago or K.C.,
and his corn is dry, the farmer
decides he has worked too long
for nothing. He gets up
late, and puts on clean clothes.
He feeds the sows
an extra bucket, because
it is the holiday thing to do.
Unimpressed, because
it's expected, they fight,
tail-snatching over the last
bite, squealing like tires
on pavement.
With contempt, the farmer
looks at the dirt
blown into the garage.
He cleans his car, then sharpens
the blade on the mower.
Each misplaced
tool finds its place. For lunch
he licks a candy bar
out of its wrapper, while the oil
drains out of his tractor.
He walks 200 yards to pull
one weed out of a field.
Farm magazines stacked
beside his chair, he watches
the weather change. It moves rapidly
across a computerized map
in Wichita. A sun sits
on Illinois, low-pressure
over Nebraska. Because it's time
the farmer turns out the light,
stares at the dark, and looks
forward to tomorrow's work,
because it's expected.
Originally Published in
Kansas Quarterly, 1993, V.24, N.4
Just Before The Dry Spell Ends
"I never seen a dry spell yet
that didn't end with a
good rain."
Grandpa German
It comes sizzling
in. The first touch
of rain.
Spit, it seems,
from a far place.
A dark place.
And stings
deep
into days of hot
country road dust.
A sharp little thing
extinguished quick
as the stroke
of a dragonfly's wing.
Yet, it forces up dust,
this place giving up
dust, much the same way
the man-in-the-moon
was dented
when he was a child.
Then everything is wet.
Originally Published in
Mid-America Review, 2000, Fall, V.1, N.2
Back to Top
A Farmer And His Son, Age 23, Disc 160 Acres
light the farmer and his son
meet in the country
and exchange some muted,
mumbled, understood hello.
Last night’s air cool
on their arms, their heads
still heavy with sleep
and yesterday’s work,
they move along the rim
of instinct---check the oil
in each machine. Check
the water. Pump the fuel.
Grease what bearings
need to be greased.
A dual of meadowlarks
trade three, well tuned
notes. A pheasant crows.
Hands dirty, the farmer
and his son stand there
on the edge of morning,
the world at their backs,
the day’s plans attuned
as each privately pees
in a different direction.
Balanced in one field,
two men, on two tractors
at full throttle, maneuver
like sky-writers
crafting one word
between each molded
line of terraces---a waltz
of weaves, flybys, turns,
and back-swaths
synchronized
in the scheme of things.
Every move familiar. Hot
clouds of dust avalanche
behind them, at times
swallow man and tractor
whole. The smell of earth
overfills the air. Weeds
wilt. Soil freshens.
Cottontails scramble.
Mice hide. The sun sets.
Originally Published in
RATTLE, 2001, Summer, N.15
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