“You measured enough dirt?”
She laughed into his jacket.
“Not yet.”
He held her tighter.
When she stepped back, her eyes were wet.
She wiped them with the sleeve of her work shirt.
Then looked toward the neighboring farmer.
He remained beside the tree line.
Not applauding.
Not angry.
Just staring.
She walked toward him.
He looked at the certified sheet in her hand.
“So.”
“So.”
He glanced toward the trees.
“County record.”
“Pending final approval.”
He laughed.
“Of course you say that.”
She smiled.
He pointed toward the field.
“Trees did all that?”
The question mattered.
Everybody wanted a simple answer.
She could have said yes.
Great headline.
Trees break record.
But it would not be honest.
“No.”
He frowned.
She continued.
“The trees helped.”
“The grass strip helped.”
“Cover crops helped.”
Residue.
Soil structure.
Weather timing.
Hybrid.
Fertility.
Rain when we finally got it.
“And maybe we got lucky.”
He stared.
“You spend four years proving something and still won’t claim it.”
“I’m claiming what the data supports.”
“And what does it support?”
She looked along the fence.
“That exposed edge was costing more than we realized.”
“The shelterbelt changed wind.”
“Moisture held longer during the dry period.”
“Erosion dropped.”
“Organic matter is moving in the right direction.”
“The crop closest to some trees still loses yield.”
“But the protected zone gained enough to more than offset it this year.”
The neighboring farmer nodded slowly.
Then he walked toward the persimmon he had kicked four years earlier.
The tree had grown crooked before straightening.
He touched the scarred trunk.
“You remember this one?”
“Yes.”
He looked embarrassed.
“I was an ass.”
Her father, listening from several yards away, called:
“That’s also supported by the data.”
Everyone laughed.
Even the neighbor.
He looked toward the old man.
“Fair.”
Then back at her.
“I shouldn't have thrown your notebook.”
“No.”
“I shouldn't have kicked the tree.”
“No.”
“I thought you were trying to prove everybody who farmed before you was stupid.”
She considered that.
“I probably acted like it sometimes.”
He looked surprised.
“When?”
“My first year back.”
“I had a degree and too many opinions.”
Her father called again:
“Also supported by data.”
More laughter.
She shook her head.
The neighboring farmer smiled.
Then became serious.
“I've got a north field.”
She waited.
“Wind hits it worse than this.”
“Okay.”
“Would trees work there?”
She smiled.
“Maybe.”
He groaned.
“Can you ever answer anything?”
“Come by this winter.”
“We'll look at maps.”
He nodded.
Then: