Sleeveless, in straw hat,
sweating, dust streaked,
the farmer on a John Deere
drives back from mowing,
smelling strong and sharp
of himself, manure on his boots,
engine fumes, end of summer
Soon to come,
the drone of the locust,
frigid mornings, early nights,
time to mend tractors,
listen to market reports,
a barn dance now and then,
the clatter of the woman in a frock
setting the dinner table,
a chat with the stars
if the snow’s not too deep,
and the woman again
without a frock
if she will have him