I watch the west field being plowed today:
My grandson rides the tractor leisurely.
Viewing the fresh-turned furrows of black clay,
Through dim, nostalgic eyes I seem to see
His grandpa walking there behind the plow
The lines about his neck; his sleek bay team
Plodding with labored breath. I listen now
Longing to hear the seagull's strident scream,
The robins bugling, and the mating lark
Playing in ecstasy his silver flute
Above the rhythmic noise--Then hark! Oh, hark!
Comes startled silence. With the tractor mute,
Song fills the air! My grandson wears a frown--
His grandpa's team would never have broke down!
