Under the suddenly searching,

silver bright light,

the tree silhouette outlines

of a November rising blue moon

above the green fogged pools of the creek,

the softly plodding giant hooves

turning the powder

of crop road

brown-gray rubble dirt

sound soothingly to

the slumbering man

behind the big draft horses

on the heavy laden wagon

where he sinks in a bed

of husk-covered corn ears,

pungent, sweet, ripe odors

penetrating the night,

the little tri-colored terrier

cuddling under his arm,

ears alertly forward

to protect the master

against the black forms

of fox and owl,

the squeals and crush

of leaves in the dark,

and the reins are in

the lightly touching grip

of the warm body next

to his, the woman,

her own chin nodding

down as she whispers,

“poor old dear,

you worked so hard today,

picking this corn by hand,

poor old dear,

next will come the binding,”

her voice turning to soft snore,

and the horses move

through the early harsh chill

of coming-soon winter

along, away home,

they know the way,

the snorts and vapors

of the bay and the gray

with the breath of the earth

in and out around them,

soft life, harsh life,

surrounded by love

for those who work the land,

in and out the wind of the earth,

soft life, harsh life,

the spirit of the living soil gripping,

deeper and deeper the sleep

in and all around them,

the moon glow high above them,

content with labor,

content with love,

the Almighty smiles around them.

Copyright 2009, Jerry W. Engler