My grandfather and I, with Riley the horse, took four days to hay the acres of grass from the fields on both sides of the house. After Riley pulled the mowing machine all morning, he drank a bucket of water, then pulled a horserake and turned the hay to dry in the sun, then heaped it together. With a scythe I trimmed the uncut hay around boulders and trees, by stone walls, and raked every blade to one of Riley’s piles. My grandfather pitched it up on the rack where I climbed to load it, fitting forkfuls in place. We left behind us hayfields as neat as lawns. as neat as lawSixty-odd years later, a farmer’s machines take alfalfa down in an afternoon. Next morning, an engine with huge claws grapples round green bales onto trucks, leaving loose hay scattered and grasses waving at the field’s margin. From the porch where I rock with my book, I marvel at acceleration and dishevelment.