He had driven half the night <br />From far down San Joaquin <br />Through Mariposa, up the <br />Dangerous Mountain roads, <br />And pulled in at eight a.m. <br />With his big truckload of hay <br />behind the barn. <br />With winch and ropes and hooks <br />We stacked the bales up clean <br />To splintery redwood rafters <br />High in the dark, flecks of alfalfa <br />Whirling through shingle-cracks of light, <br />Itch of haydust in the <br />sweaty shirt and shoes. <br />At lunchtime under Black oak <br />Out in the hot corral, <br />---The old mare nosing lunchpails, <br />Grasshoppers crackling in the weeds--- <br />"I'm sixty-eight" he said, <br />"I first bucked hay when I was seventeen. <br />I thought, that day I started, <br />I sure would hate to do this all my life. <br />And dammit, that's just what <br />I've gone and done."<br /><br />Gary Snyder<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/hay-for-the-horses/
