The sound of my neighbor

mowing hay

drifts down the road,

tractor and mower circling the field,

the sound of optimism.

I am not so sure. He stockpiles hay

for winter.

I stockpile doubt.

He is young,

his optimism is inherent.

I know better.

Circling the field,

cutting, raking, baling,

stockpiling for winter,

I know better.

He will gain a year

so that he may cut again, and again.

Whatever his destination,

his dream, he will not reach it

by way of circles.