On Top of a Haybale

One way to spend a Saturday morning:

Drive west until the rolling hills of Wright and Carver County flatten out,

until every other turn left or right off the highway would be onto gravel,

until the thought why not fills you up, flows into your fingers, convinces you to take the next turn.

Stop the car. Step out. Feel the wet mud coating your shoes, the dew still heavy on the long grasses.

Go meet those hulks of friends that smile back sleepily, 

that are grateful to have survived the winter, too. 

Discover that they are wrapped in thin wire. 

That they are much taller than you'd imagined, from behind your window inside your car on the highway.

Place your hands on them. 

You are trespassing.

But they are complicit, and say nothing to discourage you.

Sing something.