I Hear Their Song

Cracked leather hands-
Strong and work hardened.
Eyes, as though always
looking towards the horizon-
judging, gauging-
how far off the storm or sunset is-
and how much more work
can be done, before it comes.

Built by hard work-
Bodies, tough and sculpted
that will stay young and firm,
while weather beaten faces grow
old before their time.

Sun bleached hair-
stiff with grit,
peeking from under a dusty ball cap-
Was it ever soft?

The smell of earth and sweat
and animals things-
lingers in their wake.

Good men,
proud men,
hard men.
Short on words
but thick with belly laughs
and ribald humor that makes
cheeks blush and the day
go by faster.

In my younger years,
in a play I never performed, I sang-
"I hear America singing"
it is their song I hear-
these farm hands-
In the crunch of sweet corn
and the smooth chill of creamy milk
on 4th of July picnics.

I see harvest hands
in harvest moons
and tired eyes in fall sunsets.
I hear their song -
And I am thankful,
for the blood and sweat they
have left in the Earth.
I hear their song-
And I am grateful,
that my Mama taught me
to listen.