The fog has crept in on the harrowed land
During the long, sweet silence of the night,
And now lies like a blanket soft at hand
With the breaking of the gray morning light.
The low of the cattle and horses’ neigh,
The rich, dark smell of the freshly turned earth,
Mingle with the sweet smell of fresh mown hay
And whisper softly of a new day’s birth.
The old tractor’s hum and the diesel smell
Speak of the day’s work now just a’borning,
And open the book to yet again tell
Of another Minnesota morning.