Fiasco. Every year Bruce mutters fiasco. “But it works out,” I say. I remember the time a storm sped down from Minnesota soaking raked rows of hay—500 bales worth. But even then, a neighbor round baled it for his cattle. Often, we haven’t known who would help put it up, but someone invariably arrives to move those bales onto the wagon, off the wagon and into the sweaty, dusty loft.
Make hay when the sun shines, speaks truth for grass farmers, who harvest the sun, when we cut, rake and bale our fields. But it’s hard to find three or four dry days when forecasters call for rain, and it stays dry, or they call for sun and it rains on cured hay.
Wet hay heats up and molds. It can burn your barn or wreck your lungs. Our region has ached for rain. The air shouts for joy as it falls. The baby crops lift their stems, growing leaves, sinking roots, drinking.
I switch my prayers for rain to prayers for sunny days because this year we cut part of the field, not wanting to risk the whole thing, because forecasters called for rain that never arrived.
Meadow birds and lightning bugs enjoy extra time with the tall grasses. Honeybees nurse the red clover. Redwing blackbirds and grackles flirt with me, landing on the electric wires chirping. I wish them good morning and offer apologies for when we drop the field.
I’m Katie Andraski and that’s my perspective.
