IN BETWEEN

Forty years ago, I could
lift a bale to my shoulder
and walk off. I didn’t care,
my back was strong.
I could fly afoot
across uneven country,
gun in hand, outrun hogs
for whatever reason
that now escapes me, long
relegated to the ridiculous.

I have to teach myself,
each step measured
chore to chore,
my daily circle—
like old dogs mark
before darkness.
Hooks in hand,
plant feet squarely,
face and bow
before the bale,
stab and straighten,
lift and roll
above the bad knee—
then engineer into place,
tip and teeter
until enough to feed
the bawling calves
in the weaning pen.
They must eat.

It didn’t take long to get here.
So much concentration now
that I have forgotten almost all
of what happened in between.