Stacking Hay
In the barn loftthat tastes of salt and sweatof gray musty hay and weather worn wood.Below meGrandpa grabs a hay bale from the truck bedand liftsas though it weighs no more than thepointy-eared dog watching us withlarge wet eyes from the truck’s open window.He swingsand sets it down on the loft abovewith a soft thud and puff of grain and grassdrifting, glittering, downon tools and tack and feed.I pick up the balethe twine taut against my fingers insideof Grandpa’s roomy glovespressing the prickly weight against my thighsshambling and shuffling anddropping it into a stiff shaggy rowcasually lifting each balewith trembling armsas though it weighed nothingif Grandpa happened to look my way.
