For tomorrow’s heifers, steers
and bulls: I count bales in the dark,
add them to the flatbed dropped
from the top of the stack—
a vertical, class two-dump
hook over hook ascent, each bite
deep beneath colored hay string,
toeholds loose, inching-up
like a spider to belly over
under rafters coated
with old dust and pigeon shit
in space too tight to stand—
to breathe so far from the ground.
My diamond plate target is dished
between the rectangular tubing
spaced to create shallow lakes
when and if it rains, cross members
too far apart to catch very many
and keep its shape. I need eighteen
to haul and feed, yet envision
two broken and five bales on the ground
before I fall asleep—two trips at least
up and down the barn’s new stack—
inhaling its fresh alfalfa face.
