Another day in the Field

A long, wide field Empty Aside from the yellow-gold hay And crops which wave curiously In the gentle wind A red rusted tractor Rumbles through The sea of hay Coughing black smoke into the clean blue sky. The long days and hot air Carve exhaustion in the farmer’s face. They call it a simple life, But his calloused hands say otherwise. And when everyone else has retired, You will still see him sweating In that field As the seasons wear him down