grand finale Waiting for my grandson Power towers stalk from drifting August fog across seamless soybean crops and cornstalks tasseled out where roads long and straight stitch one field to another. Triple soy leaves shake soft undersides in the wind like dulled coins while rows of corn roll out the miles. Ancestors broke the sod in scorching sun, and their farms stretch state to state mesmerizing, grain silos and tilting barns break horizon. I kneel at the edge of a bean field sift rich black dirt through my fingers, remember as I break bread. —Sherry Ballou Hanson 48 GRAND AUGUST 2009