Today, the harvests are in full gear as the combines consume countless bushels of Idaho grain fields. And endless vista of dust clouds, trucks, tractors and combines. With the high heat and low humidity, the conditions are perfect for harvesting.

It reminded me of my farming days. Those wonderful days where their was no internet, cell phone, satellite, fast-paced world of digital shit. And combining was indeed a joy.

A Massey Harris model 90 combine. Ugly rusted red. Flathead Dodge six banger. But for all it’s faults, it harvested many, many bushels. And it was in my memory today as the harvest comes in.

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And thus a poem is cut, sifted, and ground.

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to the sky

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Shadowed trembles stalked dry

With height of Spring behind amid a Summers binding

comes the breeze of calm winds and the ignition of spark plugs

in a combine finding.

 

Circle, a blur of yellow with polished mirror reflecting the blur

the zippered line of receive and churn

for before it all fell, fallen, consumed…

 

Hand upon the wheel while in a hopper feel

falling

gold

feeling…

 

Smile bearing direction

Inside feeling the day

Those were the great ones in those old combining days.