Heavy-hocked, barrel-bellied, 
exhaling billows of steam, they wait 
while the corn, wheat, clover, 
and potato fields surround us, finished 
for the season. We listened to their hooves 
shift. Blue tongues lick black shoulders, 
impatient horns stab the ground. 
Soon Father will open the gate 
to where to the last crop sits 
sun-softened, stem ends dark, sinking 
back into the dirt. For pulling plows, 
for yanking oak and hickory grubs 
up by the roots, for heaving stumps, 
for stopping one night on the way home 
from town, for refusing even the buckled ends 
of harness reins raising long welts 
across their backs lathered by sweat 
and rain, for allowing us to grab 
their tails, for leading us like blind 
children away from the wagon 
perched on the edge of the swamp - - - 
Father comes, opens the gate. 
Bald face moves first, walking 
to the biggest pumpkin, lowering 
himself to his knees, placing 
his broad forehead on top, using 
his weight to crack the rind. Still 
kneeling, he scoops the mealy flesh 
into his mouth, chewing, while the other 
oxen watch us, soft-jawed. Father 
and I begin our dance, stomping 
up and down the rows, crushing the sweet 
orange spheres with our boots, and now 
they all begin to feed, bending down, 
rising up to gaze past the barn 
where the yokes, shares, and coulters hang clean 
and sharp, past the road to town 
over swamps now bridged with sedge sod 
tough enough to hold their weight 
and the wagons, up and down, lowering 
and lifting their heads, bowing to the fields.