Haymaking They cut the hay todaybeneath a fleet of clouds,and kites that screamed with fierce, metallic joy,winged talons, beaked and gimlet eyes.I will never learn to love the sight,nor find bucolic an engine’s roar,knowing beneath the fallen stalksa hecatomb of tiny things,that couldn’t know the sky,the screaming kites, and all their worldwas about to fall.
Haymaking
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