Mowing Hay

    Today, I hide from summer’s sun
        And sit the daisy flowers among.
    My farm hand’s burning tractor gas
        To cut our crop of oats and grass.

    The purring of the motor’s hum
        Is soothing nerves from life’s humdrum.
    I pull a musty tansy weed—
        Some thistle burrs the cows don’t need.

    A Monarch butterfly flits by.
        The beetles with the ants here vie.
    Clean, fragrant smells—no dust, no spray,
        It’s here the dragonflies can play.

    Now, in the dogwood trees, I hear
        Sweet melodies to please my ear.
    My Guernsey cow is sampling grass
        And wonders what has come to pass;
    Her former friend is cutting grain!

    She stares aghast with much disdain:
        “I could have saved him all this sweat
        If fences from the field were kept;
        Just open up that wire gate!”

    She clapped her bell to contemplate
        And kicked her leg to flick a fly.
    Now, as the lazy steers go by
        I see the roving look they cast
    At Father, as the mower passed.
        They understand—these bales of hay
        Will feed their cuds some rainy day.

                                © Ruth Ahola