Revenge of the Mad Viking
by NPSAS Poet Laureate,
Terry Jacobson

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It's warm and dry;
unseasonably warm.
I am chiseling the low spots
reclaiming from the
quack grass
the best land on the farm.
The dust flies;
I am black with it
as if to disguise myself
on this subversive raid.
The ground is rough
from earlier attacks
on this harsh competitor.
I bounce around the cab
of this old beast
like a pea in a rattle
grim and resolute
about my task.
For five years
the quack has had
the advantage of extreme wetness,
but it is different now.
I go at this weed
like I am eradicating sin,
or tilting at windmills
like Don Quixote.
I don't know which;
don't really care which.
I am striking a blow
on this rugged quack
when it is vulnerable.
It has already done the same
to me.

T.J. 9/16/98