Pastorale

The pasture is messy. Clods of overturned earth flounder in afternoon heat. Intransigent field weeds fountain between the plots and rows. Mud puddles in the tractor path wallow in their own mire. In the field's anteroom, two giant damp barns shelter rusty machines, every curve of pitted metal, every peeling board weighty with time's passing. So much work to do, my back crumples in the face of it—and it isn't even my work. I walk way out in the fields and face the mountains that do no work. A breeze comes up. I can see it in the distant trees and feel it on my shoulders.