One damp morning, a tenant farmer
gave a boy a fender ride
on his open tractor
to a weeding row, the machine’s
high-ribbed wheels
taller than the boy, its old engine loud.
As they arrived, the farmer shouted back
for the boy to jump—
he didn’t care to stop—
and the boy, ever quick to obey, pushed off
from one of the spinning wheels.
It shot him
down into mud
near—but not under—
itself.
The farmer glanced back, saw the boy wasn’t crushed,
then turned forward and, on the rutted tracks, grinded on.
*
One summer afternoon, an enclosed tractor
was cutting grass
on a steep highway median, its single
blade-housing extending
too far in the downhill direction, so
pulling on the tractor, the portly driver
using all his weight—
body pressed to the uphill window—
to counterbalance it.
Traffic slowed and watched him with concern.
But he didn’t tip over.
He just kept
holding
that gritty
tension.
*
One soft sunset, a small, red tractor
in a distant hayfield
rose and fell with the easy
roll of the earth.
Dipping then disappearing
into the field’s tall yield.
Burying itself
in the late lushness
grown by the loose, bobbing, reaping
man at the wheel.
Author of eight collections of poems—most recently Settling In (Kelsay Books, 2024)— Mark Belair has also published two works of fiction: Stonehaven (Turning Point, 2020) and its sequel, Edgewood (Turning Point, 2022). He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize multiple times, as well as for a Best of the Net Award. Please visit www.markbelair.com