The grain was like ocean waves of green,
as far as the eye could see, in motion,
the wind crawled invisibly amongst the stems,
shaking each one and testing its worth.

The fifties model tractor, blazing red,
trudged along, working a private patch,
in the backyard of an old ramshackle house,
patchworks of colored siding holding it together.

The white hair of the old man driving,
was tested by the wind as well,
red and white bandana tied about his neck,
flapping, along with the straps of his faded overalls.

As I walked the fence row, such as it was,
more rust and rot than metal and wood,
I waved to the man and the whitest smile
and the return of the wave came back to me.