With cows in the barn all night
things pile up—that each day I shovel
wheelbarrows full, walk them out

and up the narrow plank to dump
what the hay has become
into the spreader.

The Farmall—good as an old tractor
can be, its rear wheels so tall as to
leave tread marks on the clouds—

pulls the spreader through the fields
tossing the good stuff skyward, while I
stay mindful of how the wind blows…

that it not rain down on me.
Thus the grass having taken a ride
through the cow comes home, as we

all sometimes do—amazed at where
we’ve been and more than mildly
transformed.