Work Day

Even the sandy soil of the Bootheel is hard on man-made metal contraptions. The equipment has seen better days. And the farmer is no spring chicken. But the work must be done. The tractor spits and sputters. Firing up with a cloud of gray. Lifting the Hipper with a groan. The farmer goes to work. Tugging. Grunts barely audible over the soft roar of the Case engine. The clickity-clack of a clamp. Then, the more rapid click of a come-along pulling blades that have slowly migrated out of position back into place. Hammering. Metal on metal. Clanging in rhythm. And, finally, welding. Electricity on metal. The sound of a thousand bumblebees buzzing around the crackle of a summer bonfire.

The symphony of a hard day's work on the farm.