Hay for the Horses by Gary Snyder

     He had driven half the night
     From far down San Joaquin
     Through Mariposa, up the
     Dangerous Mountain roads,
     And pulled in at eight a.m.
        With his big truckload of hay
               behind the barn.
     With winch and ropes and hooks
     We stacked the bales up clean
     To splintery redwood rafters
     High in the dark, flecks of alfalfa
     Whirling through shingle-cracks of light,
     Itch of haydust in the
              sweaty shirt and shoes.
     At lunchtime under Black oak
     Out in the hot corral,
     —The old mare nosing lunchpails,
     Grasshoppers crackling in the weeds—
     "I’m sixty-eight" he said,
     "I first bucked hay when I was seventeen.
     I thought, that day I started,
     I sure would hate to do this all my life.
     And dammit, that’s just what
     I’ve gone and done."