Field Stones

from Field Stones by Robert Kinsley

In early spring before the grass greened, before the tubulars of wind plants took hold,

you could see them clearly scattered in the stubbled fields my father was about to plow:

field stones, like the caps of old men worn thin from years in the weather of

farm. Where he sent my brother and me to hook with pick and shovel those

smooth round forms that could nick a plow point or tip a wagon

or break the leg of some unsuspection cow mid-stride on her way to the barn.

We'd pry up the ones not buried deep, toss them to the side of the field, and swear

at ones that refused our boyish arms, that sparked