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."