My holiday job

And now I stand barefoot and sneezing at the edge of freshly harvested crop. The truck’s motor just silenced and still smelling of fire and brimstone

I wait for the header to finish its round. Eyes squinted against the haze and dust and sun.

I watch the what wheat pouring into the truck. Wheat dust streaming out into a cloudless sky. I will drive it back to the home paddock and auguer it into the silo.  I imagine the silyk, itchy, sinking feeling of diving into the mountain of what. Death by drowning.

“Did you know that if a ram got into this crop he would grow tits, and his balls would shrink up?” Not a hint of leer. Just a fact, a flannel checked shirt and shorts too short.

“What if it was a ewe?”

“her uterus would, you know, grow and eventually fall out.”

“Oh.” I say.