Carrying Water to the Field

Carrying Water to the Field

And on those hot afternoons in July,

when my father was out on the tractor

cultivating rows of corn, my mother

would send us out with a Mason jar

filled with ice and water, a dish towel

wrapped around it for insulation.

Like a rocket launched to an orbiting

planet, we would cut across the fields

in a trajectory calculated to intercept—

or, perhaps, even—surprise him

in his absorption with the row and the

turning always over earth beneath the blade.

He would look up and see us, throttle

down, stop, and step from the tractor

with the grace of a cowboy dismounting

his horse, and receive gratefully the jar

of water, ice cubes now melted into tiny

shards, drinking it down in a single gulp,

while we watched, mission accomplished.