by Norman Weibel

Created on: July 30, 2008

McCarty Ranch

A great spread of green fields of alfalfa
and swaying golden green stalks of corn surround
a spotless dairy.
Six hundred cows serviced by five busy bulls
through whose pen we farm boys race to see them snort and paw dirt.

The tall circular white washed silos rise above everything
and are being filled with silage,
chopped corn pumped by the roaring chopper to fill the silos

clear to their silver roofed tops
so we boys can play pretend parachuting through the side doors
dropping ten, twenty feet into the soft silage.

Summer vacation at last!
It's off with shoes and shirts, our farmer tans
soon replaced with summer's dark brown shade as we played.
Our feet become tough enough to walk over fresh mown fields
stubble which had been sharp and cut tender feet.
From hay bales we can now build fancy forts and fight with clods.

We climb the great pepper tree whose arms spread wide and tall
above Billy's grandma's house
and holds our refuge; a tree house in the sky.
When the clouds turn black and the wind roughly shakes
our perch and rain drops big as pennies splash, we huddle hoping we'll live.
We do, and soaked and shivering slink home.

The farm dogs chase the little Australian Shepherd
who seems to be teasing, slowing now and again. My full
ruffed collie is among them. Will they fight?
she selects my dog. The others wait. He sniffs, sniffs her;
then lifts his leg and sprays her face. She's disgusted.
Off the pack races. My dog lies down, done, thinking he's done his job.

Our shoes pinch our summer toughened feet
as the yellow bus to school we all line up to meet,
complaining that our shirts itch on our backs.
so used to being bare.
It's here. We greet our friends already aboard the bus.
Summers over. School is in. We hurt, but we grin.

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