Baling Hay

A grunt and heave,

and it sets the load,

a fine row.

Midwest cotton,

dirty yellow,

alfalfa scented,

hands protected.

White legs toasty,

sweltering summer heat.

//

Suffused stems,

shallow scraping,

stings on contact -

Mercurochrome later.

Lifting bales

is an art.

Bending again,

muscles tighten,

hoist up,

motion continues

'til sundown.

//

Sweat perfume,

dripping hair,

suction back tee.

Candy cane shoulders,

filth smatters

forehead to ankle.

Last to shower

gentle fountain,

washing clean.

Shiver of shock,

damp cool.

Sheer fabric,

drops in place,

skin cradled.

//

Inviting plates

of hearty food,

steam rising.

End of day.

Time to play.

Star Trek calling

from the screen.

Night-time

daydreaming,

eyes droop.

//

Crisp sheets cradle,

sighs of fulfillment,

gentle breeze,

green cut scent.

Crickets chirp,

bugs flit,

air -

sings, near silent.

Occasional glimpse

of traveling lights,

silhouette of distant

Mainstreet.

//

Tiptoe outside,

supine on spongy grass,

galaxy, Milky Way, overhead.

Path of stars,

an infinite, unfathomable crush.

Better to envision

an endless city,

than be eaten by one.

**This author would argue that there are more than five senses ;) **