Apparently,yes... First Cutting by Susie Patlove What is the hayfield in late afternoon that it can fly in the face of time, and light can be centuries old, and even the rusted black truck I am driving can seem to be an implement born of some ancient harvest, and the rhythmic baler, which spits out massive bricks tied up in twine, can seem part of a time before now because light glitters on the hay dust, because the sun is sinking and we sweat under the high arc of mid-summer, because our bodies cast such long shadows— Rebecca, with the baby strapped to her back, the men who throw impossible weight to the top of the truck, the black and white dog that races after mice or moles whose lives have been suddenly exposed. How does the taste of my sweat take me down through the gate of childhood, spinning backwards to land in a field painted by Bruegel, where the taste of salt is the same, and the same heat rises in waves off a newly flattened field. In the duskiness of slanted light, we laug...
