Hayfields in Appalachia

There comes a morning
when the hills have changed again.

The work has already begun
before the sun reaches the far ridge.
A tractor moves so slowly
it could almost be standing still,
making another pass
across the ground that has known the
same labor longer than anyone living.

Nothing here asks
anything from us.

The meadow gives itself away
a little at a time
until broad rows lie across the hillside,
each one following the terrain
the mountain settled on long ago.

I have wandered farther
than the child I once was
could ever have imagined.

I have seen rivers wide enough
to lose the other side of the bank,
towns where daylight never seemed to end,
roads that carried me
through country I had only seen
inside schoolbooks.

They gave me something.

Even so,
I have never found another place
where an afternoon
could hold so much.

The field seems larger
after the wagons have gone.

Nothing is missing.

Still,
the distance from one holler
to the next
has somehow grown.

By autumn
the rows have disappeared.
Only the open field remains,
waiting through shorter days,
giving away no sign
of what stood there before.

Perhaps that is why
I have carried these hills
for so many years.

They have never tried
to hold me.

They simply kept their place
until I found my way back.