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by Mark Trechock

The grass greener than we could remember
and rippling like a bodybuilder's deltoids
keeping a firm hold on the unbroken topsoil,
Arne and I drove down from the Slim Buttes
in front of a northwest wind.
A ground squirrel dashed in front of us toward the center line
then spun around on its haunches and retreated for cover.
"If I had it to do over again," Arne said,
"I'd put the farm all into grass and stick with black baldies,
work more at selling local, auction off the combine and seeder,
maybe raise a few horses, maybe some goats.
Better to go broke with meat than wheat,
fewer meetings to go to, less chemical
and less bad advice from the extension service."
Miles and miles of grass lay swaying around us,
some black baldies and their spring calves to the east,
beyond them a half dozen pronghorn almost out of eyesight.
Arne said nothing for a long time,
but out here there was no one to disagree with him.


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