He took me up in his tractor
and showed me how a thunderhead stirs
the earth because he rides close to it.
Like the king of the Greek gods, he touches
thunder when he tips open the gas
and shifts his machine into gear.
It bucks when the plow cuts old furrows.
The sod rises like a squall line
and relaxes to moist sillion.

He can hear songs tuned in the soil
by the drat set on his plow.
He tries to tell me the words
but I can barely hear him for the roar
pouring over me like a stream falling.
He combs my gaze.
I turn and watch the sod roll over
–sleep shifting from dream to the next.

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