What I Think When I Smell Hay

By Maureen Ash

All over the county

in this lull between rains

farmers have mowed hay, raked

it, fluffed it, fussed

like bridesmaids that it should lie

in long flounces under the arched

fickle sky.

The scent of it rolls

off the fields like a popular

song all the radios play. I see

my pirate dad, right arm longer

because of the hay hook he used

to pull bales from the chute, knees

absorbing the roll

of the hay rack on its swells

of farm field, how he could stack

that load so high, keep

himself a little nook in which to pivot

and hoist a bale up over his head, pop

it back to lave room for another.

The loaded racks swayed,

beat into the yard like ships

sailing upwind, all of us swarming

to unload the loot

into the barn’s wide, light-seamed loft.

Later, the cows summarily milked,

supper in the dark though it was summer,

the littlest child drooping over his plate,

the ret of us a merry crew, our dad

satisfied with the day’s haul,

Mother washing our faces

before her light kiss.