HAYFIELD NOON

A midday break from hauling hay
in summer heat that's here to stay
on this longest day of a hot year.
I wish a cloud would come this way.

An overheated crow flies by
through this oven of a sky.
He emits one desultory caw
which sounds barely worth the try.

In midst of field, a whirlwind blows.
The straw filled whirling dervish grows
lifting loose grass out of sight.
Another one of lunch-time's shows.

It being the seventh year
dry flies resound loud and clear.
All other bugs are muted now
so quiet you can barely hear.

Beneath this tree the only sound
is random pats as sweat hits ground
until there comes a gentle breeze
rustling all the leaves around.

I wring my hat of salty sweat,
the noon break is not ended yet,
so I pour cool water on myself
until I've become soaking wet.

In this sultry summer weather
a fluffy few clouds now form and gather
dividing the ground to sun and shade
and giving relief to skin as dark as leather.

But the field is not yet bare;
too many bales still sit out there.
So time has come to move some hay
and stack it in the loft with care.