He looks up.
For a moment he thought he saw

horses and the hay mower
in the field next to the gravel pit.

More than half a century—
gone the harnesses and the twitching skin

under the reins, gone the quiet way
the hay fell behind the sickle’s arm.

He wants to climb onto that rack again,
lift a pitchfork and pull the hay

down, as if it was a river of green
falling from the sky,

to be that young again.