Before I was ten, my grandpa would place me
On the back of his red Honda motorcycle—
Or on the “sickle,” as he called it—
And then he'd tell me to “Hang on”
He'd stomp on the kick start
And the sickle would ratchet to life
Together, we'd ride out at dusk into
The green, summer-fed alfalfa fields
I'd watch him at work while he
Advanced the wheeled irrigation lines
He'd work the hoses and the valves
And water would shoot into his face
He'd hop back onto the sickle
And we'd tear off into another field
As always, the sun would disappear,
But he'd ride into the blackness without fear
The white light beam from the headlamp would reveal
Just enough so I knew that our path wasn't impossible
We'd fly faster than anything that I could imagine
And the cold air would whip through my long blonde hair
And I'd keep my little arms wrapped around my grandpa's ma**ive belly