My stomach tells me it's noon.

I shut down the tractor, 

pull off the hearing protection

and listen as the brush-hog spools down

and the birdsong comes back. 

I, creakily, climb down, flex my stiff knees.

I've been at it since dawn, cleaning up

Sam's Pasture, named

in honor of the wisest horse I've ever known, long gone.

His sagacity pulled me through

many a tough day.

But that's looking back, exactly what I don't want to be doing.

Sam's Pasture is a happy place,

some timber, some open ground, a few rabbits, 

lots of mice, it rolls, it has a little spring,

two little ponds that haven't been full in years,

it's where I go 

when I want to see the long view, it’s where

I go to poke around, see nature,

have a pleasant outdoor experience without the memories,

as it's part of the ranch, yet isn't—

I bought it separately, when Mrs. Spry, Blanche,

decided to sell.

It joins our house property, I ran bulls there,

cut it for hay sometimes, 

but, as I say, it wasn't part of the ranch proper, 

and now that that's gone, the ranch, 

I'm left with, yeah, a happy place, with visions of Sam  

coming up to the gate for grain and conversation, 

and as a place of refuge for myself,

and the wildlife, where I go to cut wood or admire

the grandest white oak, 

though that came down a couple years ago 

in a wicked spring storm, 

big sails catch the wind, the wind came, and bam, 

half the forest is knocked over.

It's what nature does, anyway . . . 

I was up there brush-hogging, which I do every third year,

which is about right, keeping the balance

between wild and wooly, a fine distinction,

I shut down the tractor,

take off the hearing protection, kick the debris

off the cutter, and start walking the half-mile to home.

I figure I'll bring the Scout back

after lunch with diesel, and that way 

I'll have the tractor in the field, rather than

running it up and down the road.

I take off my heavy coat, it's warm now, and my neck rag,

which is what my brother calls the bandana

I habitually wear around my neck

in cold weather, and begin ambling home.

I've learned that ambling gets me home

quicker than fast walking,

as ambling induces a dreamy state and time disappears,

whereas quick walking is tiresome, psychically 

and physically. 

Wisdom comes with age, occasionally. 

I'm walking through the pasture, where the timber

meets the open ground, the bluestem,  

that terrain is called cross timbers, and it's pretty nice,

and I'm wishing Tommy would call, it's been too long,

but then I remember

how I tried to call home as little as possible

when I was in school as a display of independence,

and he's been doing well,

so I cut myself and him some slack, and I'm ambling along,

and I get to the road, head north, with the ranch to the west,

and see the pasture is overgrazed,

as the new owner is an ass, and the cows are thin,

he should be ashamed, but feels no shame,

and I'm ambling home, kicking gravel,

thinking about Tommy and life, and it's warm,

and I'm wearing Carhartt overalls over my jeans,

which is one too many layers,

and a hat that's too warm as well, my insulated camo hat 

that I've had since Jimmy Carter was president,

and I pull that off, 

and it's nice walking, ambling, home,

and I see Martha at the top of our lane, 

by the mailbox,

she’s going for a walk, and there she is, 

a quarter mile down the road, what a coincidence

that we should meet up here, 

and she starts walking south, and I'm walking north, 

and I don't know what she's thinking, 

but I'm giving thanks, 

and we meet halfway, and it's nice, and we walk home together, 

down our quarter mile lane 

through the timber to the house, and, well, 

no need to summarize, 

some things speak for themselves, 

but I'll say it anyway, 

there's the good and the bad, and you do what you can and go on.