LaVerne the oldest, thirteen years, drove that old orange tractor
While sister Marilyn and then me, with pitchforks followed after
We’d follow close behind Laverne as the cutter bar cut hay
And swipe our pitchforks sideways to cleanly clear the way
The summer dry, the mower din would flush all sorts of critters
Bees and hoppers, flies galore, and new-born field mice litters
Swallows from the barn would swoop and dive to dine in flight
Friday, April 15, 2011
An Incident While Backswathing Original By Gerry Hubbard
Their slate blue wings would flash and gleam with flicking glinting lights
The new mown hay, bright summer sun, our hats were made of straw
To quench our thirst, a quart of water in a canning jar
On one long pass the mower noise put out a baby rabbit
I shed my boots to run it down to see if I could grab it
It darted left then right then left and straight and when it did
I stepped on it and skinned it from it’s tail up to it’s head
All pink and red, it throbbed, alive, black flies began their peck
I picked it up, with one firm twist, I broke that poor thing’s neck
On that same day I stabbed a dirty pitchfork through my foot
I got a bad infection and for a week I just stayed put
I sometimes think if there be gods, they saw that step so cruel
And they then partially invoked the “eye-for-an-eye” rule.
And as I think about it now, that summer’s days’ long gone
The hayfield’s smell and the swallow’s dive I’m sure will carry on.
If I get into those same straits and flounder on death’s seas
I hope someone will have the heart to do the same for me.
The new mown hay, bright summer sun, our hats were made of straw
To quench our thirst, a quart of water in a canning jar
On one long pass the mower noise put out a baby rabbit
I shed my boots to run it down to see if I could grab it
It darted left then right then left and straight and when it did
I stepped on it and skinned it from it’s tail up to it’s head
All pink and red, it throbbed, alive, black flies began their peck
I picked it up, with one firm twist, I broke that poor thing’s neck
On that same day I stabbed a dirty pitchfork through my foot
I got a bad infection and for a week I just stayed put
I sometimes think if there be gods, they saw that step so cruel
And they then partially invoked the “eye-for-an-eye” rule.
And as I think about it now, that summer’s days’ long gone
The hayfield’s smell and the swallow’s dive I’m sure will carry on.
If I get into those same straits and flounder on death’s seas
I hope someone will have the heart to do the same for me.
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