Weed-Eating One's Own

by Taylor Graham

He aligns the swath straight as a pike
through headhigh wild oats and needled
brome. Assurance of long acquaintance.
The sun’s a little bit late to hit the swale,
the cusp of summer. A far extent of field
unmowed, uncharted though he knows
every foot of it. He could have paid
to have this done, but that would
neglect the connection a piece of ground
is owed, the owner always in its debt.