The Tractor

Photos by Randy Laird.  Used with permission.

It stood motionless,

the Deere at the edge

of the woods, as though waiting

for something, for someone

to bring the come-along

and finish

what we started.

The bushes moved

in like guerilla soldiers. Stealthy.

The bush hog lay

wounded in the weeds.

And standing in that patch

of angled sunlight,

the heat ticking off

the hours

and minutes

and days

and moments

of reflection and rejection,

it seemed as though I heard a sigh.

The trees, their reply,

a sudden shudder,

showered leaves like trouble

you'd just as soon forget.

Birds burst forth with screams.

Why?  Why?

Had the tractor been brought to clear the brush

or had the brush moved in to claim the tractor?

Who was the warrior here? Who the vanquished?

Insect battalions chant their nightly ululations

and the creepers crawl.

Like a Confederate soldier

fighting someone else's war,

the Deere stands, a silent sentinel

slowly bleeding

precious oil into the ground

and asks us to remember, or

at least not to forget.

Will man ever make order out of chaos

instead of the other way 'round?

Listen to the land.  She will tell you.

Beyond the darkening woods,

behind the hill, you can feel it

a distant rumble

thunder, hoofbeats

the coming roar.

August 14, 2006