Prairie Poetry   
  During Harvest

My father laughed louder, smiled
quicker. Even when the wheat
measured only thirty bushels per acre,
he'd tell a joke, wink. Riding home
from the field, he'd calculate bushels
to truck loads to bills he could pay.
Once home, sleep came like a thunderstorm,
unavoidable and full of rain.

  Dana Salvador
  Copyright © 2006 Dana Salvador
  Author Index | Biographies | Support Prairie Poetry | Month Index | Year Index | Guestbook | Home