This was before bales, before the raked hay
slipped between the baler’s teeth and came out
in heavy green packages tied with twine.

This was back in the time of pitchforks, when
tractors weren’t much bigger than a team
of horses, when wagons were made of wood,

when the hay-loader—tall as a silver
giraffe—followed in back of the wagon
and the hay row climbed up like a salmon

and fell out of the blue sky down onto
the platform, where my father stood pitching
the hay—first to one side, then the other—

layering a green sea over the ropes
that would lift and swing it into the barn.