Counting Down the Days

June 10: A Baler

The tractor crawls its way across a great expanse of grassy field. It draws behind it a matching green contraption—that's the only word I know to describe it. Together they form two sections of a great insect, shining in the noonday sun. It is June, and the signs have spoken; The daffodils have long since shriveled, and the lilacs are now brown and wilted. The trees—once a light, spring green—are beginning to take on deeper shades. Most importantly, the grass grows long and crunchy in the fields. It is time for the first cut of the season.

Now cut, the grass lies flat and obedient on the ground. If you look closely, you can see the fresh, nubbly ends poking up between the dry stalks. When you put your hand on them they are sharp and bristly.

Here comes the great green bug. It trawls for grass, scooping it up in bunches and tucking it away within the depths of the machine. It trundles along along until suddenly the machine splits open. Like a chicken laying an egg, it lays a great bale of hay upon the field—four or five feet in diameter and neatly tied with string.

You start out by approach the bale. It is not frightened, and does not move away. You reach out and feel waves of heat wafting gently from it. You breath in its warm, dry scent, with just a touch of dust and something else you can't quite place. Next you put your hand on it, feeling the crisp blades of grass under your fingertips.

You grow more comfortable with the bale. It is not afraid of you, so now you treat it like a friend. You lean into it and rest your chin on the dry stalks, getting bits of hay all over your shirt and neck. You reach your arms out as wide as they will go and give the bale a big hug. The bale rocks slightly in appreciation.

The final hurdle is the hardest. You first try lifting yourself up on the curved side, then on the flat one. Perhaps you take a running leap from a few yards away. The bale sits as still as it can, silently encouraging your efforts. Finally, you perch atop the bale in triumph. Perhaps you even stand and look down at the world around you. There are a dozen more hay bales now, dotted across the field. The grass has been mostly gathered and the insect is parked quietly to one side.

You may stay on the bale for a while, reveling in your success, but eventually you slide down and go back inside. Later you may find scratches on your arms and legs that you don't remember getting. By tomorrow, the bales will be gone, carted away to be sold for animal feed. It is sad, but you know the bales run on a schedule; They will be back. Just as you forget about the bales' existence, the great bug will make its return.