Then he looked around. No cars were coming down the county road.
No one at the house could see him. So he smiled, sat on a rock and
leaned back against the ditchbank.
A farmerís recliner, he thought, wiggling slightly to avoid kidney
puncture by a twig. He was smiling that dignified farmerís smile on
the outside but laughing on the inside. So nice to just rest here
for a minute in the sun. Oh, he wouldnít have done it if heíd left
the engine running. Waste of gas. But the engine was off, all the
seeds were in for this year, and all he was doing was plowing summer
fallow now. No rush. Do it any time.
So Harley locked his hands behind his head, lay back against the
ditch grass, and just looked around.
Marshmallow clouds today against a dark blue sky. Crows flying in to
Harleyís fields from Rogerís. He paused a moment from pure
observation to lean a bit on philosophy. He considered that fences
and land deeds and farming contracts meant nothing to these birds.
There is more than a bit of envy there, but just for a minute.
Harley stood, stretched his back and drank from the canteen on the
[to top of second
Crows didnít worry about deeds, he thought, but hey, they didnít get
to watch football in the fall, either.
All in all, on a nice summerís day like this, thereís nothing wrong
with being a farmer.
[Text from file received from
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