She rose with the roosters, just before the sun peaks above the horizon, as any farm wife should.
In the early mornings, the small farmhouse filled with the smells of coffee and bacon and eggs frying.
Her long hair braided loosely down the back of her pale colored dress,
The end of her hair touching the place on her waist where her apron was tied.
She stepped lightly and barefoot about the kitchen,
Fresh sunlight and the sounds of waking animals coming in through the open window.
He comes into the room with the sun,
Hair ruffled from sleep and jaw peppered with stubble,
Worn overalls smelling of dust and straw hanging from his squared and load bearing shoulders.
They eat and talk and smile and love.
In the bright of the afternoon she feeds the animals,
Their calls and cries for her from the fences of their fields, matching seemingly to her singling.
Under the high sun, he walks and talks and plows.
His old stocky horses stomping and heeding and dragging the steel plow through the earth.
They sweat and tend and work and grow together;
Woman and man and plant and beast.
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