sitting on a brush hog
a million miles away
i must have been a
teenager; it was the
heat of the day. a
round and around
in rectangles, drop
ping bales of hay in
what may now seem
smallish cubes, but
trust me, they didn’t
feel small but unwieldy,
picked up one by one
to be tossed up into
the scorching sun or
grabbing them after
tossed from down
below while atop
the flatbed’s how
many-ever layers
of them, and neatly
stacking each until
the old ford pickup’s
chassis is just about
dragging the pasture’s
till. and in between
grabs and catches,
if i were to peer out
straight and through
the rivulets of sweat
running down my face
i would of course see
all the mama holsteins
chewing cud, seemingly
ruminating, as it were,
scattered about the
nearly shaved square,
all quite patiently
standing or com
pletely unaware.
