At every sheeted cloud, whipping back from the hoofs of the horses and the steel spikes of the harrow, he had to bat his eyes to keep from being blinded.
The smell of dust clogged his nostrils.

As soon as he began to sweat under the hot sun the dust caked on his face, itching, stinging, burning.

There was dust between his teeth.
Driving back east was a relief.

The wind whipped the dust away from him.
And he could catch the fragrance of the newly turned soil.

How brown and clean and earthy it looked! Where the harrow had cut and ridged, the soil did not look thirsty and parched.