The way the twisted cords of yellow twine cut
into the fingertips, the weight of the body
as it turns and tosses
the tight packed bales from the wagon.
On the ground, your partner stacks
as fast as you can throw. Sweat
seeps down your back
into the crack of your pants.
You can smell your own
clean, sweet odor like a field of timothy
drying in the hot sun.
The cows keep watch, their heads
dangling over the fence, wondering
what curious creatures we humans are
to be expending so much effort in such
a seemingly meaningless task.
Three hundred bales by noon,
unloaded and neatly stacked
to the barn’s wooden rafters.
You go inside for a quick lunch
of a cold meat sandwich and a bottle
of icy beer downed in a single
long, ecstatic drought
that leaves your head
slightly swimming and pleasantly buzzed.
All the long afternoon stretches before you
like those endless rows of Indiana corn.
Sighing, you push your ball-cap
back on your sopping forehead and right then
the evening seems a distant promise,
but you know the day
will not be long enough
for all that’s left to be done.
Originally appeared in The Rockford Review, Winter/Spring 2011
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