All day I’ve watched the tractor from the center of my eyes.

She paces the field like a swimmer

and stays in her lane while taking much time to cross me again.

She sprays dirt into the waves of sun

gone too soon under the watery surface of dusk.

Her breathing stops with a decrescendo;

hitting the wall because no earth is moved after dark

(and so my connectivity to our greater world is paused).

I’ve never loved a farmer,

but I do love how his dirt spreads like sand,

deep brown and full-bodied in the grass.

I love his faith spelled in russet Braille

and that his boredom must be spurred by many things

save straight lines and loam–

not to mention the simple fact,

that he and his tractor are the only ones

who keep coming up for air.