He stopped his pickup beside the field.
Then leaned against the fence.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Finally, he spoke.
“Your father would’ve said a blind mule could plant straighter than that.”
Phil sighed.
“I expect he would.”
Butch looked over the field.
“He’d have plenty to say about those gaps, too.”
“I know.”
“But he would’ve said something else.”
Phil looked at him.
“What?”
“He’d say the crop isn’t dead yet. It needs weed control, nitrogen, and irrigation. And it needs all three quickly.”
Phil looked toward
