The Older Farmer ripped the clover out with both hands.
He did it slowly enough that everyone watching understood it was meant to be an insult.
Roots tore from the soil with a soft ripping sound, carrying dark earth with them.
The Older Farmer shook the clump once, then threw it against the Young Farm Woman’s boots.
“There.”
He pointed toward the corn towering behind her.
“That is what’s stealing from your crop.”
The Young Farm Woman looked down.
Pink clover flowers rested against the toes of her worn work boots.
She did not bend to pick them up.
Three neighboring farmers stood near the fence behind the Older Farmer, arms folded, smiling beneath dusty caps and cowboy hats.
The Young Farm Woman had been listening to the same argument since spring.
Clover did not belong beneath corn.
Cornfields were supposed to look clean.
Rows straight.
Ground bare.
Nothing competing between them.
That was what a serious farm looked like.
At least according to the men who kept stopping beside her property to explain agriculture to someone who had grown up there.
The Young Farm Woman adjusted the heavy wicker basket against her hip.
Fresh ears of corn filled it almost to the rim.
“You finished?”
The Older Farmer laughed.
“That’s all you’ve got?”
She looked at the torn clover again.
“You walked across the road to pull up my plants.”
“I’d say you’re the one with too much time.”
One of the men near the pickup laughed louder.
The Older Farmer stepped closer.
He was nearly seventy, tall despite age, with shoulders that still carried the shape of a man who had spent half a century lifting feed sacks and wrestling equipment.
His farm bordered hers on the west.
He grew more corn in one season than she did in three.
People listened when he spoke.
Banks.
Buyers.
Equipment dealers.
County officials.
Other farmers.
Especially other farmers.
That was partly why his ridicule bothered her more than she admitted.
He pointed down between the rows.
“You know what happens when drought comes?”
The Young Farm Woman said nothing.
“That clover drinks first.”
Still nothing.
“The corn loses.”
She shifted the basket.
“Anything else?”
The Older Farmer shook his head.
“Your father would’ve torn every bit of this out.”
That changed her face.
Only slightly.
But he noticed.
So did the men behind him.
The Young Farm Woman lowered the basket to the ground.
Then she walked toward the nearest row.
The Older Farmer smiled as though he had finally gotten through to her.
Instead, she removed a narrow metal soil probe from the loop on her belt.
She pushed it through the clover.
The steel sank surprisingly easily.
She drove it deeper.
Twisted.
Pulled.
A long plug of soil came out.
Dark.
Cool.
Crumbly.
She broke it in her hand.
Moisture darkened her palm.
The men stopped smiling.
The Young Farm Woman climbed through the fence.
The Older Farmer followed.
“What are you doing?”
She entered his field.
His corn stood several inches shorter.
Not dramatically.
Enough.
More importantly, the leaves were beginning to roll inward against the afternoon heat.
His soil was bare.
Recently cultivated.
Sunlight struck the exposed surface directly.
The Young Farm Woman pressed the probe down.
It stopped.
She pushed harder.
Still barely moved.
She shifted her weight onto it.
The metal finally penetrated.
When she pulled it back, the soil core broke into dry chunks.
She rubbed one between her fingers.
It turned to powder.
Wind carried it away.
The Older Farmer looked toward his own corn.
Then back toward her field.