There must have been a dozen other times
when we finished making hay just before

the skies opened, but I remember best
the time that I rode home on the wagon,

looking back at the bare hayfield, pointing
to the clouds gathered in the West (angry

thunderheads, forking streaks of lightning),
and saw the fingered tunnel descending.

Something was up in the sky, bellying
down over our fields, and I could see how

we looked from above: a man on a red
tractor pulling a wagon load of hay,

a girl sitting on the top bale calling
to the black and white dog that trailed behind.

The beast surveyed the scene, and then because
we were meant to live, moved on to the East.

We had the hay in the barn, and supper
was on the table when the rains came down.