NaPoWriMoApril 28: Look to the Sky . . .

Look to the sky in the morning.
My grandfather's people did,
for the day began with dawn,
when they put on those worn boots,
went out to the barn to feed the horses
and the dogs. Women made bread,
took care of the chickens, cooked
and cleaned, fed the work crew,
stretching the food, turning the pot
away from hungry eyes
so no one could see how much
or little remained. Then to the fields
and later, on horseback, checking

the cattle on the open range,
the work depending on the season,
and at dusk, a moment or two
of rest, the men sitting on the steps,
gnarled hands resting,
looking to the sky for portents
of rain, the women in the kitchen
preparing for tomorrow,
an endless round of days,
marked by no change at all,
until that one day when
my grandfather left
and never looked back.

Frank and Sigrid Henry, about 1918, Montana

Just a note: I do like to guess what time it is in the morning by the color of the sky, especially in the spring when Daylight Savings Time gives us that extra hour. 

Today's poem came from stories my grandfather told me about working on the farm when he was so small, he couldn't turn the horses pulling the plow at the end of each row in the fields. In those days, life was harsh. He did leave those fields back before World War I in Missouri (what he called 'mizry') to travel west. He wanted to be a cowboy, earning money along the way west by working odd jobs on ranches, and singing and playing a guitar, until he came to Montana where he met my grandmother and became one of the first Forest Rangers. I remember listening to his stories around the campfire when I was growing up.