Hay Stacking, '71
The western sky's a Monet canvas.
Orange and red smudges give way
to the smooth lavender strokes
of late-summer twilight. The sun,
now unseen--
below the hill at the far end of the fields--
the entire farm's engulfed in shadow.
Earlier, with the sun at its peak,
we squinted against the light and dust,
heaved hay bales onto the flatbed Ford; straw
stuck to our shirtless, sweaty bodies.
My brother and I worked all afternoon.
No talk of war, no mention of friends far away,
just the thud of bales hitting truck bed,
and the drone of papa's John Deere, ahead in the
distance; the baling machine
dispensing our labor like Pez.
But now, with the day's work done,
with the truckload stuffed in the loft of the barn,
we climb out onto the old tin roof,
sit, feet dangling from its rusted edge,
share a beer swiped from papa's cooler
and talk of girls as the horizon darkens.
Beyond the procession of maples and pecan trees
our pond becomes an orchestra pit--
the crickets and frogs start their nightly symphony.
Later, tense, unable to sleep,
we'll lie awake in the waning heat,
fearing,
not our father's belt,
but the daily stack
of delivered mail;
brothers, lifting hopes heavenward,
piling
prayer upon prayer.
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