"Why do you keep the farm?" I said to him,
"You should retire and spend your slowing days
In city-comfort." -- "But I like the ways
Of farms," he answered looking at the slim
White birches swaying by the river's brim
Where glad larks fluted; then I saw his gaze
Rove to the meadow where the pheasant lays
Her eggs, the slough where bright-winged mallards swim.
I knew he meant the little things--the fall
Of furrowed loam ... And almost envious
I breathed the wild, sweet scent the spring released.
I knew he heard within a killdeer call
Across a field of wheat, the Angeles,
For he stood silent till the chiming ceased.
