A Ride through a Pasture in an Old Farm Truck

Three of us went out to bring the cows in

as the world was turning in for the night,

as the black silhouettes of birds

dipped and swooped against the orange sky.

We drove across fields

and towards an irrigation machine,

a giant spider on metal legs

sent out to wash the world.

Grinding the green grass under its black shiny wheels

it came on

in the long slow movement of massivity,

slowly rolling,

slowly, slowly,

so slow

it was hardly moving,

slow like the world turning,

slow like the moon changing,

slow, over days and nights, and more days,

traveling, traveling over the lush green field,

creating the lush green field,

the mist resting over it like a blessing,

the water--the living, freezing,

dribbling, splashing water--

drenching the land

(the land is loamy and heavy with life).

The work dog stretched out in a joyful run,

chasing our red truck

like a black-and-white comet

as we blundered over bumps,

and jiggled and jostled inside our tin-can cab.

We finally park beneath the machine,

between its spidery legs.

Drops splatter over the windshield,

the old manure crusted over the door handles

is made smeary and alive again

by this wheeled giant,

drawfing us, the truck, the cows who wait

impatiently by the paddock,

the most important thing in the landscape,

the bringer of life,

the thing that makes any of this, and us, possible,

slowly, slowly turning forward

slowly, slowly turning toward the stars.

That happened several weeks ago.

I like to think of it,

imagine it still traveling in that quiet place,

watering the ground.

It was so reassuring somehow.