I watch the west field being plowed today:

My grandson rides the tractor leisurely.

Viewing the fresh-turned furrows of black clay,

Through dim, nostalgic eyes I seem to see

His grandpa walking there behind the plow

The lines about his neck; his sleek bay team

Plodding with labored breath. I listen now

Longing to hear the seagull's strident scream,

The robins bugling, and the mating lark

Playing in ecstasy his silver flute

Above the rhythmic noise--Then hark! Oh, hark!

Comes startled silence. With the tractor mute,

Song fills the air! My grandson wears a frown--

His grandpa's team would never have broke down!