At end row’s turn he looked down into the wild and cover of end: yellow mustards in wide panicle blossoms rising from bed of green. On flower ends, butterflies of white and lilac fanned slow spreading and folding wings.
Back and forth, all day he planted ground uniform in the slump and dying sign of systemic-chemical kill; but in the ends, —in folds and recesses where mechanics did not reach—life remained in in richness, color, and beauty amidst the cover of wild.
Next pass of field, at field row’s end, the butterflies remained. He stopped the machine and stepped from tractor’s cab to examine them more close. He was glad for the butterflies, glad they were there, and glad for the mustard’s bloom.