My boy has reached that age
when he wants to do the driving.
Near noon, as we go home
with a load of bales,
he drives the tractor, and I stand
on the drawbar behind him.
At a corner on the gravel road,
we meet a neighbor, a passenger
like me, his boy behind the wheel,
and we stop to talk.
While the tractors idle
and we discuss the moisture level
in alfalfa bales, I notice the boys
are taking turns making little pulls
on the throttles, revving the motors.
That power in their hands, they can't
get over it, passing sly smiles
between each other.
My neighbor takes a sideways look
at what the boys are doing,
but we keep talking about hay,
pretending not to notice
so we don't have to tell them
to knock it off.