Hayloft

In the corner stall, I slap flakes of hay, testing for mold. The dust billows; I hold my breathe against the spores. I mentally prepare myself to do what I must: venture into the hayloft to retrieve fresh bales. The ladder rungs hold their place, allowing me to ascend into the darkness and shadows, into the still and dusty air. I distract myself from imaginary dangers by singing the the few words I know of ‘Hey Jude’. I look to my only other solace: the sliver of light coming through the second-story doors. I throw them open. Sunlight bursts in.