Rolls of hay lean into the hillside, peppery-sweet, thick wheels, spiraling to rest in slumped shoulders of land; bonfire weather dips hoverfly-close for a day or more, September hay breathes in each morning’s creeping chill; the sun’s arms don’t reach quite as far as they did in August. The hay isn’t very good, but it isn’t bad. Deep amber butterweed flecks green prairie grasses and milkweed. It isn’t very bad, anyway, the goats eat it well all winter. On good...
