We follow the wagon and the men with forks who lift, to the one on top. Are hoisted up. Ride over hillsides, rocks. The iron wheels crunch, tip and bounce, to the barn. Nearer the city they have tractors and trucks.
Life is nicer here.
In the barn an old machine with wood sides, red. Faded yellow letters. The horses stamp and breathe. We climb to the top of the haymow. High above the wideplank floor among the beams and leap into the air.