Rocking Chairs

Chairs on the porch are rocking.
I know it's wind
but prefer to see farmers rocking
who once again 
are up before dawn for the milking.

 I smell a whiff of tobacco
but see no glow,
hands resting on armrests are empty
and voices low.

 I assume they're talking farm prices,
how the drought will play
when it comes to the yield per acre,

 how they'll pay their bills
and have money left over for seed
and next year's planting.

 Their faces in the first light are grim.
With the sun, they're gone,
back from wherever 
they've come.

 The chairs keep rocking.