The harrow would be run a day or two, after the plow had dug and tilled the soil,
The mules pulled the blades deep, curling and turning up the inner dirt,
To the top, leaving clods and rocks, and chunks of grass,
Bouncing and bending its way forward, breaking the backs of mules and riders, desperate
for planting, for growing, for life.
The harrow ran shallow, breaking the surface down,
Making each row a clean line, busting the clods into soft dirt, pitching the small rocks,
Pulling each row in order, cleaning the ground, ready for seed and growth.
Riding its tail-seat seemed easy for a change, and the thought of knowing, there would soon be plants.
Now it sits, and potted flowers
grace it’s flats, as time has taken it’s toll with innovation,
And leaves us here to wonder, at work that’s been left behind, for we can feel the reins no more.
Ralph Peck
Photo by Ralph Peck
Verdigris, Oklahoma
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