Hay for the Horses

Hay for the Horses

He had driven half the night
 From far down San Joaquin
 Through Mariposa, up the
 Dangerous Mountain roads,
 And pulled in at eight a.m.
 With his big truckload of hay
             behind the barn.
 With winch and ropes and hooks
 We stacked the bales up clean
 To splintery redwood rafters
 High in the dark, flecks of alfalfa
 Whirling through shingle-cracks of light,
 Itch of haydust in the 
             sweaty shirt and shoes.
 At lunchtime under Black oak
 Out in the hot corral,
 ---The old mare nosing lunchpails,
 Grasshoppers crackling in the weeds---
 "I'm sixty-eight" he said,
 "I first bucked hay when I was seventeen.
 I thought, that day I started,
 I sure would hate to do this all my life.
 And dammit, that's just what
 I've gone and done."

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