Death comes for the Rototiller............. a read-aloud ballad

While the rabbit built a nest
of fuzzy downy fur
to birth her babies there, hay-hidden from the world...we plunged into the bowels of the heavy heated greenhouse to pull 300 Bok Choi from the nursery to the field.
The rototiller sputtered, it hacked and spit and nuttered while the horses stood a-munching
sweet grass long and tall
Yes the rototiller sputtered and eventually it muttered midst the onions with their arms a-raised jumping up in green alarm
"I'm done for and I'm dying, the doctor you must
call!"

The walking plow watched on while we dragged the dying body cross the rows and rows of onions with their flags a-waving strong. And with quiet concentration it sat beaming useful goodness and a silent steady readiness in a motor-world gone wrong.

The oil of Saudi Arabia spilled full bleeding to the earth, as the plop of dropping droppings smooshed beneath the fjord horse hoof. The farmers wrestled wrenches, swore at screws, and mis-directions....till the gentle breeze and kitten sneeze spoke volumes in their sweetness and the slow and steady rythmn of the horse and plow and farmer

cross the broadbacked field of Springtime came a-springing to the mind.
So we harnassed and we hitched, snap of leather, clattering brass
and the horses bound for glory left behind their snack of grass...

And the discovery of the SINGLE horse

pulling straight and on her own

was a balm and boon

that Bok Choi day when 300

(& more) found home.