The road is well traveled
Farm machinery passes along from
One field to the next
Equipment is so large it occupies
The entire space; narrow shoulders
Are important for oncoming vehicles
Today I am walking in the bright sun
All dust has settled and the
Seasonal sloughs are drying
There is an empty house back off the road
The trail to it is hardly visible
Walls are bowing and the roof sags
Little of the chimney remains
A rusty swing sits broken on what is
Left of the porch or gallery
I wonder about those who left
What were their reasons?
Death or too many bad years
No one has the answer.
I sense ghosts still haunting the place
Uncles, aunts and grandparents surely
Occupied the place as guests for dinner or
Work hands for seasonal chores
Birds fly out of an attic window
The earth is slowly reclaiming the property
Others have annexed the land and
The farms keep growing in size
Men worked weeks doing what
Is now done in one day
Irrigation and fertilizers make a mockery
Of pioneer efforts and human endurance
I cannot fathom the days, weeks and
Seasons of work which kept coming
There was never any catching up
I keep walking thinking these were
Our heroes, but we just didn’t know
Stanski
May 19, 2023^
Steve Haarman 