Dane Leimbach

Sons of Farmers

A friend and I beheaded golden beans in seclusion. I despaired at the end of something; he argued that this is the process: these beans and all things die. Eight feet above the earth we can see the backs of rabbits dodge the teeth of the auger. I’m reminded there are things outside myself. Surrounded by tall sons of the sun, trees fading fingers shed brown skins and block our sight of a world that stinks of split atoms and concrete streets. We are perfect eight feet above the ground. I let myself breathe once I spot a rabbit resting outside the path of the combine.