Field Report

At this hour,
the hay bales
are quiet
resting roundly
in their wide brown field

Perhaps there are more
than yesterday, some
closer to the road
others clustered
near the hedgerow
where field meets forest

The bales could be counted
or locations mapped
small brown whorls sketched
onto the nubby white
of watercolor paper

But so much distracts me
from the task—scent of hot tar,
a scurrying in the underbrush
the strong lines of wood things—
telephone poles, log pile,
weathered red barn

And if they are
on the move?
The mechanism is a mystery still:
Do they roll? Or late at night unfold
thin stick legs hidden all the long hours
of the day, tucked beneath their bulk?

What do they seek? What is the direction
dreams carry them? And what can we make
of their dreams content?
Are they contented, sitting
still in the field?

Who are we to decide—
is this invasion or excursion
takeover or tourists
are they hostile
or merely curious about
the neighbors?

Like much else, we must conclude
this matter as
Unsettled as the dreams we
dream ourselves each night.
Let us continue to watch the world
closely
for any hints it might share.