Poetry

Shifting Silage Under a Summer Moon

I am on an island: this speck, my tractor, spills light in a skirt about it: beneath the footplate it falls like flour from a sieve and sows into the stubble. A yolk, a bolus almost, is solid in the cup my headlights cut from the dark. Sitting here behind them is like watching an animal nose about, shoving light. Out at the farthest reach of illumination it weakens to a mist, so that what’s out there, the grey paddock, is furred with a nap, tawny-sable like that of a Burmese cat. Boulders of feed rear up out of the…

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