Late November the corn is in, stubs
litter the ground, frozen and thawed
a dozen times since Veteran’s Day.
Gopher mounds poke up then collapse
across the lawn. This morning I find
bear scat halfway down the drive,
coming or going I can’t say. While
I stand and think, Don Armstrong’s
truck bounces across the rows, belching
exhaust. Whatever is he doing?
Then I see his dog Evie at the wheel,
the windows cranked down, her ears
flapping in the wind. A crazed smile