Hay

Shaking awake
from silver threads of dreams,
morning pours
over mountains.

Tired muscles
play once more
a solar symphony
of sweat and toil.

Soon, all the hay
will rest inside,
green treasure
stored in silence
for winter's cold.

It will lie
in golden whispers,
quenching the hunger
of gentle cows.

Held in the Sun's tight embrace,
I take a peek
at the clear sky.

I breathe out,
my hands raise again
the pitchfork with a long handle,
and another bundle of straws
flies inside the barn.