Throwing Hay
Dust motes rising in a column in the thick sticky sunlight.
No point avoiding them; soon enough they'll form a protective layer
on your skin.
A layer of sweat, a layer of breath,
a layer of bugs.
A layer of living.
Another bale breaks the horizon of the hay mow, more to come,
more to come.
Dawn, repeated a thousand times over, at the end of day,
as merciless as the sunset.
Grab it with hooks, pick it up, sling it around, throw it the same distance as last time.
No more, no less.
Do not rush. There is no reason to rush.
There is no end in sight.
Going faster gets you nowhere fast. Going slower gets you scorn.
Go steady.
Think about your breath, think about the hay,
think about the guy in the mow above you (at least you didn't draw THAT straw today),
higher, hotter, wearier.
Think about the weather, about profanity, about beer.
Everything ends in its own good time, there is no negotiating.
But eventually everything ends.
The sweat becomes a baptism and the beer tastes of ambrosia.
A rebirth, a redemption,
and the only part of the entire process that doesn't suck.
And here it is stored under dust in the mow of memory.
Here it is again.
Another dawn, another decade later.
Another bale off the elevator.
Another box in the storeroom.
Another package off the conveyer.
Another raw injustice, bruised and leaking into soggy corners.
Take a deep breath.
Think about the guy in the mow above you.
Don't move too fast, just move.
Pick it up.
Go steady.
Keep going.