A field of packed earth,
Bright spots of sharp green against the gray,
The rich brown, of earliest spring.
Hooves, solid and sturdy,
The earth sinking where they stand ready—
Quiet and attentive.
Hands, chapped and red,
Connect lines, secure buckles, gently pat the soft nose,
Steamy breath billowing.
An encouraging word and the hooves push forward,
The packed earth, steadily churned in rows—
Loosened, lifted, breathing anew.
Wings smack, erupting from the brush.
A row becomes a squiggle, then falters to a stop.
A firm voice communes.
Hooves and hands sync up – a squiggle becomes a row.
The rich earth, now pale in summer’s heat.
A soft nose and a calloused hand
Share a taste of the bounty grown.
Copyright 2017 T. L. Kels