Two more loads of hay sail up the narrow road,
preceded by a diesel squeeze, decelerating
in pre-dawn light, looking for a barn to fill
before they can’t turn around, or back down
in these hills—we know about commitment,
the long way ‘round, the scenic tour
and feel like squirrels packing again for winter—
forethought not for us but for good cows
in this stale debate about climate change.
Expensive alfalfa, but cheap insurance
these old knees abhor where the denim fades,
old dreams creaking as I unlock the gate.
Drought Nebraska must be the heart breaking
as it grinds miniature ears and short corn stalks
into silage bins, young men wondering why
the old men stayed to make the payments
on new equipment they can’t use now,
or if punching a clock is even possible in town.
Dumb-assed farmers know no better than to hang
it all on a rainbow somewhere in the middle
of the old bread basket, in the belly of us all.
Grabbing hooks to climb and square the stacks,
I try to look like an agile, sure and wise survivor,
as saggy, baggy britches bound into a limp leap.
I take instruction from a fast-talking Portagee
I don’t understand—two-faced Janus in the squeeze—
but finally figure as he moves last year’s inventory
together. First in, first out keeps it fresh like poetry
bleeding from the sap of trees, floating like fallen leaves
to mold and rot—enrich the earth with song and thought.
drycrikjournal 
When I read this poem this morning it made me cry, but I thought I was just in a blue mood, so I read it again this evening, and it made me cry harder – not even sure why, but that is why you are a great poet, John. The last stanza especially stings. Thanks for the road runner photo to lift my spirits!
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Oh and I may be dumb, but what is FIFO?
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FIFO, an accounting term for valuing inventory: First in, first out. I’m sorry that the poem seems to have a sad and hopeless tone, reverberations, I suspect, since the House of Representatives went home without voting on the Farm Bill in the middle of one of the worst droughts this country’s faced in decades, and the realization, despite the media coverage, that the average person doesn’t comprehend the potential implications of this drought to him personally and to the whole of this country. We may be at that tipping point experienced by every great civilization throughout history. Most of us in agriculture know how we are perceived by the majority as the chasm between the earth and their plate widens. My heart goes out to the drought-stricken farmers in the mid-West who live and work to feed us, but in my mind I’m angry, that despite history, we seem to have to learn, and relearn, everything the hard way.
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