Hay: cut, baled, and sold

Somehow we found a window of opportunity to get the hay in. It was difficult to figure out when to cut...it's been so rainy. Still, the field showed improvement this year (fewer weeds and oak leaves), and my father had about 80 of the larger rocks pulled out in the spring, so he didn't break his cutter bar on any of them. Now we're all just hoping he doesn't tip the damn tractor into one of the unfilled holes that are left.

384 bales. Kept 100, sold 284 to a guy down the road. Selling it immediately means you don't have to store it, which means, L3SS WRK, yay. Satisfactory, indeed, and I pitched my share of bales into the loft.

Now it can rain again.

Song of Myself, Stanza 21

21

I am the poet of the Body and I am the poet of the Soul,
The pleasures of heaven are with me and the pains of hell are
with me,
The first I graft and increase upon myself, the latter I
translate into a new tongue.

I am the poet of the woman the same as the man,
And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man,
And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men.

I chant the chant of dilation or pride,
We have had ducking and deprecating about enough,
I show that size is only development.

Have you outstript the rest? are you the President?
It is a trifle, they will more than arrive there every one, and
still pass on.

I am he that walks with the tender and growing night,
I call to the earth and sea half-held by the night.

Press close bare-bosom'd night — press close magnetic
nourishing night!
Night of south winds — night of the large few stars!
Still nodding night — mad naked summer night.

Smile O voluptuous cool-breath'd earth!
Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees!
Earth of departed sunset — earth of the mountains misty-topt!
Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue!
Earth of shine and dark mottling the tide of the river!
Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake!
Far-swooping elbow'd earth — rich apple-blossom'd earth!
Smile, for your lover comes.

Prodigal, you have given me love — therefore I to you give
love!
O unspeakable passionate love.