Just before you reach the Triple B Country
Sausage sign, there’s an old red tractor
hunkering down beside the road.
You can hear the heavy sighs as it nestles
into the leaves, loosening its belt
and letting its chassis hang low. Blink
and you’ll miss it twitch like a sleeping dog—
the rise and fall of its rust-covered ribs
when it rolls at last, into a dream of wheat.
