He tilled the thawing earth of spring
with the rhythm of harrows
and the disc plates whined thin rows
in the firm, disturbed
clumps of cold, rich soil.

The field's oat cover was turned
under to the bared fence row
upsetting new purple songs of clover
whistling white into the wind.

The tractor hummed as the disc
wailed up broken leavings of old blossoms,
arrowheads, wild onions,
sienna stems and rotted roots.
He had passed this way so many times before.

The tractor and harrow grumbled past
familiar surface boulders and tree stumps.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead and
envisioned row upon row of tall, green tobacco.
Another sun began to drop behind the Appalachian Mountains.
The giant, black steering wheel turned
in his big strong hands.
The harrow sang

                                            and stilled...