Ten Bales High
Brother and I borrowed a ride.
Upon a hay baler machine.
We balance ourselves with iridescent eyes,
On fresh cut blocks of green.
Three by three the layers are stacked,
Tightly bound with sturdy string.
We sprawl on our sides watching the crows,
As we whistle, hum, and sing.
Alfalfa aromas penetrate all,
While shears vent pulsing grasses free.
Snakes flee, mice scurry, cottontails bound,
From the tines, as ground is stripped for all to see.
We have reached the magic mark of ten bales high.
We rest on bended knee.
But the culmination of our journey,
Leads towards a low hung tree.
Pushing ourselves flat against the fresh cut feed,
We reach through upturned leaves.
Nimbly picking little mulberries,
As purple juice stains the hungry thieves.
Copyright © Michael Wayne | Year Posted 2011
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