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
the pick, again and again in their stubborn flash of knowing.