He condescends to accept our hay From stretching arms and extended toes. All the while he smirks, he knows Someday I will build the load, Or is he laughing at himself In pride of mortarless masonry Knowing he can go so high Yet far beyond our reach. We vie for hay to increase fork-load Our only defense against his smile. Back at barnloft we rise above In sinking holes of dust. Now he reaches, but always smooth He reverses himself with an easy swing Forkfuls come off in an ordered way No mercy do we receive, except a pause when we're behind. Down to the eaves we tramp and squeeze, and often sneeze, His eyes are twinkling now. There is an order built out of time Tramping or leading the horse comes first, Raking scatterings sometime soon And with strength comes pitching on, Only a step but a long long way from ultimate building the load. Which of course depends on Dwight Who in the meantime smiles.