My Fields
I am in love with my fields. They are not really my fields, of course, they belong to my neighbors who bought them from Farmer Doyle who inherited them from his father who inherited them from his father whose father homesteaded the land. Or something like that. Farmer Doyle now leases the land from my neighbors and gets in three cuts a year-alfalfa. As Lola and I stroll the two dirt roads that cut through his crops, he waves and smiles from his tractor. These are his fields, connected and running through him in a way that most people will never understand. And yet he allows me to make them my own. I love my fields. Thank you, Farmer Doyle.
I am in love with my fields. They are not really my fields, of course, they belong to my neighbors who bought them from Farmer Doyle who inherited them from his father who inherited them from his father whose father homesteaded the land. Or something like that. Farmer Doyle now leases the land from my neighbors and gets in three cuts a year-alfalfa. As Lola and I stroll the two dirt roads that cut through his crops, he waves and smiles from his tractor. These are his fields, connected and running through him in a way that most people will never understand. And yet he allows me to make them my own. I love my fields. Thank you, Farmer Doyle.
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