Clad in plaid and denim overalls, the solitary figure
traipses at twilight across acequias into elongated rows
of husky stalks bedizened in tassels, silk fibers,
drooping leaf blades, internodes, and brace roots.
She counts the ears as high as five while
listening to sunset’s susurrant gusts,
palming cobs and fingering kernels,
hardly noting the diminuendo overhead.
Peace’s hour fleets too swiftly for her tastes,
yet time remains to shuck, boil, and butter
a meal’s worth for her kin and even leave
a little something for fawning does to nibble.
She doesn’t believe in going back to the land
because she’d never dream of leaving;
hers is the lineage of stalwart tillers,
roaming at gloaming with barrows in tow.