Outsider

The field stretches from morning
to evening, passes no verdict on
work done. The tractor shouts,
smoke pours from the exhaust, the plow
turns black ridges where I hold a
straight line until the fence turns me.
A spring sun warms the air, I see
a flock of ducks waver north,
a wild plum, gnarled and stunted,
along the fencerow bursts into bloom.
I should cut it down, I farm to grow
the seeds I plant, not those from
some wandering hand that sows
god knows what tares and thistles.
A rabbit hides in the grass, a cock
pheasant calls to his hen, tenants
of a wilderness I destroyed to cut
land into furrows for my own sake.
Like them, I am an alien here for
the sun, wind, sky, earth do not care
if I can shoulder my way into Canaan.