Hayrakes and Windrows

The following poem was entered in a contest, and an offer came if I wanted to pay, I could have it published.  Well, I don't have money to have my work published, so as far as I know, it never was.


                                               No wind, no clouds, no rain
                                               made this a perfect day for haying.
                                               With scythe balanced on his shoulder,
                                                and a wad of chewing tobacco stuffed
                                                in the pocket of his faded overalls,
                                                Grampa Les prepared for a day of
                                                Hayrakes and windrows.
                                                Gliding the blade through tall grasses
                                                until not one was left standing,
                                                He prepared the field.
                                                Darting swallows and frantic butterflies
                                                seemed to be the only things stirring.
                                                Too hot to be working. yet too sunny to waste time
                                                was reason enough to endure.
                                                Buckets of switchel drained from a tin dipper
                                                brought relief from the irritating hay chaff,
                                                and a paisley bandanna handkerchief wiped away
                                                the beads of sweat that glistened
                                                in tiny rivers from brow to chin.
                                                Our rakes could not keep up with his scythe,
                                                but there never was a real effort to do so.