Yes, there is a field, in the middle, a tree swaying,
full with greenness, edible chartreuse.
Yes, there is a rusted red tractor roving
up and down tugging the bailing machine, dropping
square bales of hay, like scattered forgotten furniture dotting
the view of the horizon. No rain-cloud, no shiver,
no loneliness, just the sun, its gold saturation, and the girl
in her bird-red coat, bending over, cupping
hands together, making train-whistles through blades of grass.
She learns to look for tall water glasses at yard sales
for lemonade, iced tea, and long-handled silver spoons, long enough
to stir the sugar in for the men working the fields, stacking
the hay bales high on the tractor’s flatbed. Inside the white farmhouse
her grandma rolls out secrets from the flour drawer, making
biscuits, donuts, telling the little girl she belongs, belongs,
belongs in that field of hay and corn, not in the field,
far away, of irrigated rice paddies, where women bend over,
pluck and place their harvest in woven baskets. Hand over
hand, over pouring.
In the Pastoral I Know
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