Comments about Maurice Hirsch
Just-cut hay will arrive at dusk.
I look at the uneven pile
of sun-bleached brown bales
left over from past years.
Each has its own character:
wispy thin grass,
coarse with tough yellow stems.
Tan outsides hide muted green within.
The bottom layer smells faintly of mold
where it meets concrete.
I move 50-pound bundles by their red or tan twine,
willy-nilly at first, fumbling
for a plan. I find
mounds of loose hay,
nests my dogs built in winter
to sleep away gray daylight hours.
There is part of an old ...