The Quarrel

The little hates between them had begun And so when she ran up the pasture slope To get away from him, he let her run, A wet wind at her back. She took some rope To scare him if she could, which she could not. He watched the moon mark an imprudent path Beyond the cropped grass to the sugar lot. His mind was on his chores and on her wrath.

The milk-train's whistle hooted like a horn Soured by time. He heard a shuddering freight Heave its asthmatic thunder through the corn; In the wet mist the cows lowed at the gate, And off he went for chores. When he returned, He found her fixing breakfast unconcerned.