Standing by an open fire, its smoke swayed by a cooling breeze, I look at the tall hybrid poplar trees along the farm lane. Across the Mikinaak Creek basin, the Red Wing blackbirds twitter from its partial cover of cattail reeds. A far distant jet rumbles by unseen, overhead. Leaves rustle noisily in the oaks behind me.; evening songs of robins, the crackling of the fire; the fragrance of burning wood, its embers glowing gy gusts of wind. Perhaps the coals will last until morning and we can drink our coffee here beside a renewed campfire. I wonder of our impact here for there is no grand mansion nor log house of character, no machine sheds, no legions of steel grain bins nor acres of concrete padding, underground aeration pipes, no overhead wires or moats around fuel tanks stands against possible fuel spills, no oil-packed driveways, nor depths of seasonal implements hidden by over-grown forests of sweet clover and Canadian thistle, but only one plow, one 3-point blade, one