undulate acres
gold under sun
neatness of mown rows
randomness of dropped bales
without pattern, it seems
might they be the tines and the prongs
in some airy music box
that, when plucked,
would fill the world with sweetness?
(one thinks)
On a hay field
Aremyfeetofftheground 
I am running out of words that describe what I feel when I read your poems and stories. Like most of your writing, I feel like I am there.
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Oh, such kind remarks! Thank you, Gael.
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Not just kind, very true. And you are very welcome!
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