The Miraculous Close at Hand
by Michael Escoubas
(after “the evening sun turned crimson,”
from the book title by Herbert Hunke.)

It had been a long day in the field,
bulging with summer’s fullness–
the hay baler’s mouth ate clover,
raked in rows, still damp
with dewy scents rising in morning mist.

Red-winged black birds hovered,
snapping up insects
as their ruby wings flashed
in the sun-drenched air.

We toiled on the rickety hayrack,
from sunup on past lunch
hefting twine-strung bales
in neat stacks from back to front.

Sweat, spilling off our cheeks and necks,
sent gullies splashing
down our backs and chests,
until our cotton shirts turned a darker blue,

and all too soon,
as if painted by a hidden hand,
the evening sun turned crimson.



 

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