The small fields I once new were not
joined to one another so that the tractors

as big as my father’s shop could roll
up and down the gentle hills without ever

turning a page, without coming to the end
of a line, without leaving a margin along

the fence posts of the lane to the meadow—
where cows, each one with a name,

went down—a black and white procession
in search of greener pastures—tails swishing,

their great heads swinging side to side, each
taking a turn to bellow at the sky,

while off in the distance, a small tractor
went back and forth between the rows of corn.