Raw red earth cut deep for a pillow soft seed bed.
I check the wake of working for a clean job.
The roaring steiger hits the corner and hydraulics moan their duty.
Diesel cloud puffs out as depress surges upward.
Another sweet song turn complete in a 500 acre symphony of purpose.
A falcon swoops, his harvest early, as bugs and beetles flee the plough.
John laws grasps another victim in the throws of fiscal inducement.
Up here in mechanical heaven I am king of all I see cause there is no-one here, but me.
Damn. Another block, with that mallee root and saffrons.
Fourth time this morning.
I execute a hurried circle of dancing hydraulics and dump the load on a tree corner, neat as a pin.
F.M. played some meatloaf and flicked up some paradises by the dash board light, I had in the late 70’s, when I was something more.
Wonder if Steve remembers that night back from wyalong at 185 all the way, wonder we didn’t die.
Stuff, the phasings out and the outsides kicked up to the shithouse.,
I hit the levers together, while my stomach calls for smoko.
The straight side is 14 minutes long, and I pour sweet tea on the go,
and eat too fast for an ulcer.
Trick knee is aching from the heavy clutch, and I curse the football legacy,
even though $6,000 bought the ligament back.
And that old pine tree signposts the pain of lifting a red hot fire harrow too tired to remember what I was doing, and it healed after a month or two, when the skin came off.
And I wonder if I can average the 18 bags I need to keep this life….
The hopes of a farmer