Another morning begins as countless others before it— a pink sun appears from behind the stand of maple and oak trees, shrouded in feathery clouds and casting a few weak beams across the meadow.
With this, insects that had already been awake for about an hour begin to make noise, spreading news to those that slept in that it’s time to get a move on. Some have been hanging off a blade of grass all night and would gladly stay there for much of the rest of the day. Mid-season bees continue the previous days’ task, hopping from one aster to another, picking up pollen and carrying it elsewhere. They like to chat while doing this, or else hum to themselves.
A lone mantis is thinking he blends in pretty well with the taller grass chutes he’s found, and has inched up pretty high, up to the spot where gravity feels like it’s just about to combine its force with his weight and bring the whole blade bending down toward the ground. The spot just below that is the best lookout.
A grey-brown vole peeks his nose out from a small hole, wanting to wait for it to get a little warmer before emerging but can sense it isn’t going to get all that hot today, so he unburrows and goes looking for breakfast.
An angular spider crawls out of her black vortex to check her web for fresh catches. One caterpillar hangs upside down on a milkweed frond while his older sister, who has recently undergone a significant transformation, flaps wings and floats down to land on an adjacent leaf. A fat toad sits in a cool spot, under the shade of a broad burdock leaf, content to ease in to his day.
A couple miles away, a sixty-seven year old man finishes his second cup of weak coffee and drops the mug in the sink, with sludgy grounds in a ring along the inside. He grabs the keys to his truck, pushes through the front door and lets it swing back and smack shut behind him without bothering to lock it. He starts the truck and pulls out of the driveway, splashes through a couple shallow puddles, then reaches the road and makes a left.
Not a lot of cars on the road this early, save for a few people passing through on their way to their not-so-close jobs with longer commutes. He makes another left, blowing through the stop sign and cutting across the oncoming lane, which at this hour feels to him like a safe gamble. One more left onto the semi-private dirt road, where he’d held onto several acres of land and cleared a small patch of woods to store a tractor, a hay baler, and an old boat.
He parks next to the tractor, turns off the truck, steps out and slams the door, immediately opens it again, grabs his hat, and slams the door again. The keys to the tractor are already in the ignition so he just climbs up into the still-dewy vinyl seat, holds down the clutch with his foot and twists the key until the engine turns over.
With that alarm, thousands of antennae rise from the ground into the air, tiny necks turn heads, black eyes open wide. The rusty roar of a forty-year-old machine fills the meadow and makes everyone nervous but unable to tell from which direction it originates. It grows louder from all sides, as a sweet and oily smell wafts and lands.
A thin grey veil creeps in and slows down some of the more sensitive species. The vole, far from his hole, knows something is up and searches frantically for his hideout. Some bugs burrow into the soil, where they’d normally hibernate for winter, while others remain unshakably asleep under a canopy of nightshade.
Anticipating that her web will be soon be in tatters, the spider flees into her vortex, which leads to a deep subterranean tunnel. The mighty mantis remains atop his tower to keep view of the approaching contraption tearing through the tall grass. The drone grows loud enough that some sleeping bugs wake up, recognize the danger, and begin climbing down from their beds with a harried but throttled slowness.
A slug slimes his way down a dying milkweed stalk, not knowing where he’s headed, only that the lower he can get, the better. The toad uses his energy reserves to determinedly hop toward the edge of the woods, where he’d be safe from spinning blades. The mantis, resolving not to abandon his post, is the first to see the tractor block out the sun.
The steel beast crawls to the far end of the field, leaving behind toppled grass and a fading din. The once vociferous chorus is silent now. A crow lands and picks through the wreckage, while hawks circle far overhead, safely airborne. Two of the spider’s legs poke out from an entrance-less tunnel and pull out the rest of her. It’s ruined, she’ll have to begin all over again.
Already several acres away now, the man parks the tractor in the clearing next to his truck and kills the engine. He hops down from the seat, removes his hat and wipes the sweat from his forehead with a gloved index finger, smudging black grease along the same line. He tosses the gloves and hat through the open truck window, then sends his eyes back to the tractor where they remain intensely fixed and still.
Based on the state of the treads, he knows these old tires are overdue for replacement. But he estimates they’ll be good for at least a few more passes this season. And as long as the weather holds, he can get back out there with the hay baler tomorrow.
Had Losing Light on my earbuds right as this post came across. A beautiful coincidence and read. 💚
Incredible piece, friend! You had me shrunk down to the size of a ladybug and feeling the trembling of the earth as the tractor swept through. I was terrified!