Ryan planted alone: north then south, back and forth; forty foot swaths at a time, pass by pass, until the field was done.
At the field’s north end, Ryan turned, returning south in parallel to last pass’ tracks; and as he planted, he gazed on another tractor working out before him. It was red bodied, pulling a red cultivator with black harrow turning earth and breaking down the last of fall’s residue moving across background of green.
The red tractor worked on an angle—southeast and northwest—aligned to the boundary of a triangle field tucked against a small airport—ground the field once claimed.
Ryan thought of the farmer in the tractor. Ryan wondered how the other’s season was going. What were his excitements? What were his worries? What was he trying new? As much as seasons and patterns sometimes seemed the same, little different than the next: there was always new something to try, changes and differences that kept it interesting.
As Ryan planted, he wondered many things as minds are apt to do on days in solitude with soil, self, and sky. These thoughts, like all the rest, he kept within himself.
In mind and spirit, he wished the other well—a good season—as he did all who worked and made a living of the earth as men, women, and families—rejectors of conglomerates and entities that favored title of producer over farmer—rich in cash, changers of rural culture—who, by volume and sheltered capital, priced families and farmers out.
He wondered further as he nearing to field’s south end. In his mind, Ryan wished the other well, wondered when they might cross paths, if then, not toiling, they might talk. Then, reaching southern end, Ryan turned and set back to northern sight leaving the red tractor and the one within to their labor and their angles.
Field apart, each kept to their work and worlds; sharing, by profession, fellowship of solitude.