White-yellow hot,
the afternoon sun
paling the bow
of the broad blue sky,
narry a breeze
to carry away
the Johnny popper exhaust
and the deep humid breath
of the black-turned moist earth
between uncurling leafed rows
of knee-high corn,
a pair of red-tailed hawks
rising high in the thermals,
the old brown and white shepherd-collie
stretched to cool his belly
by the water jug at row's end,
panting patiently, smiling up,
brown eyes of love
on the tractor turns,
the fat field mouse,
running back down the row
behind the weed-turning shovel,
hoping that none of them
noticed him,
the short whine of hydraulics,
the jerk of biting tines
lowered back to waiting soil,
that crumbles apart
with a weight of worms,
Mom on the phone back home
saying with a chuckle
that just like my Dad,
I've been cultivating Ethel's bottom,
the pause on the old wooden bridge,
with the dog barking impatiently
to say "come on let's go,"
looking into the deep green pools
to see the lolling catfish,
the dog bounding joyfully in front
to show the way,
the half-cooked eyes,
the legs that shake from the hours,
Mom and the old dog,
two puns of fun.