I sat by a barrel overlooking the barn,

the sound of a crow breaking the air,

which was moist and clear

as the days

thin clouds scattered before me.

The red barn, the red barn

had stories to tell of my life,

all packaged away like the hay inside it.

Each day awakened by the earliest hint of grey

to attend the fields and livestock.

I nurtured both by the ache in my back.

I would shudder if they missed a thing.

By the push, the pull, the work,

each day I wore away by the hour

as the corn that was ground.

To produce for the people,

To take care of the land,

Such broad goals for such small hands

There were times when early coffee

with a bun and butter and bacon seemed sweet,

and I nurtured the secret with Nature alone.

The work was a challenge which I would never revoke,

And I placed value on the day by chores done,

The birds seemed to whistle; the animals were my friends.

My hands have grown old by the day,

and they put out half as before.

What I’ve produced has been sold,

and I’m not sure if the price was fair.

The land seems monotonous in its shades of

winter barren white, spring the plow, summer sweat and fall leaves.

And the changes are predicted,

and the work is the same.

I sit by the barrel again,

Overlooking a life.

My wife cooks lunch

and Joe the neighbor is milking his cows.

That I know.

I suppose I will package the hay neatly

in time for the  weekend.