Hay time.

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Echoing far into the evening light

gruff voiced engines stutter and wail

as the sun sinks over them, cooling pale.

Grass, cut and packed tight;

the last blue-green bales of sweet delight

standing, like dominoes, to dry overnight

shadow the crew-cut, blonded field,

where busy sentences trail, abandoning the yield.

Henges, fingering the low-slung sky,

solidified in gathered darkness

hugging their silhouetted starkness

tempt illusion to comply.

Muffled laughter's heavy sigh

says it's last prolonged goodbye,

as perfume, threshed upon waiting breeze,

slowly drifts through ripened canopies,

bequeaths it's pungency for the coming day

wrapped, like the meadow, into standing-stone hay.

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