I can remember the early mornings—how the stubble,

a little proud with frost, snapped as we walked.

How the John Deere tractor hood pulled heat

Away from our hands when we put in gas.

And the way the sun brought light right out of the ground

It turned on a whole hill of stubble as easily as a single stone.

Breathing seemed frail and daring in the morning.

To pull in air was like reading a whole novel

The angleworms, turned up by the plow, were uneasy

Like shy people trying to get away from praise.

For a while we had goats. They were like turkeys,

Only more reckless. One butted a Chevrolet car door.

When we washed up at noon, we were more ordinary.

But the water kept something of the early morning in it.