Every summer, the time arrived to gather in the hay.
My grandfather mowed and raked the waist high field with his blue Ford tractor, leaving long golden rows.
Then with a rhythmic clack, clack, clack the baler moved along the rows, turning them into bales of hay.
Leaving a field dotted with neatly bound parcels.
We walked the field beside an old pickup truck, hoisting bales into the back.
Sweat poured down my face and soaked my shirt.
Hay stuck to my clothes and in my hair and on my skin.
Finally the truck was full.
We climbed atop the hay and rode to the barn relishing every moment in the breeze.
Wishing the barn was miles away.