As the sun sets gray
My arm scratched red by hay. Ice dripping, just a little. Telephone lines sagging. The few birds that make me notice I haven't seen any in a long time. Horizons. Dog looking too small in an open field. Odd cuts and familiar aches.
Hay hook thumping on the seat of a semi. Party ribbon colored binding blue and green. "Usta be clover hay." Graveyard set above the road.
Sitting on a log to the sound of a chainsaw running out of gas. Driving through a melted puddle. My hair splays out from under this hat, looking like a picture of a French pioneer on leaning off his riverboat. Remembering mud. Hay hook bite.