by Mike L. Utley When field work is done and soil tellsA tale of fragrant earth in russet tonesWhen ground-mist hunkers in secluded dellsAnd eventide descends upon the swellsOf solemn and discordant distant bells I follow god-beams west, these tired bonesSun-gilded in the cool remains of dayAs fields pass beside the cobblestonesAnd honey-hives a-swarm with buzzing dronesAnd … Continue reading When Field Work is Done