The Moya View

Field Grass

image: Lena Altshul

Fresh, fragrant and not yet tarnished 
the grass was mowed at the same time.
It laid in ragged armfuls. By the afternoon
it was less bright, starting to dry out.

After a week, the grass was gathered again,
into bigger stacks, dried for a longer time.
The stacks were so tall that the children
dug tunnels in them to play hide and seek,
until the parents with pitchforks, struck
the stacks with the instruments side to
chase the children back home for they
feared the stories of the grass demons who
ate boys in the sun and girls in the night.

By now, the grass had become hay.
The days were turning cold and chalky.
The trailers came. The tractors also.
The sheds needed to be all filled
for the cows to survive winter.





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