An Incident While Backswathing  Gerry Hubbard We had to use our pitch forks when the backswath board broke off To clear a path for the mower shoe to cut another swath LaVerne the oldest, thirteen years, drove that old orange tractor While sister Marilyn and then me, with pitchforks followed after We’d follow close behind Laverne as the cutter bar cut hay And swipe our pitchforks sideways to cleanly clear the way The summer dry, the mower din would flush all sorts of critters Bees and hoppers, flies galore, and new-born field mice litters Swallows from the barn would swoop and dive to dine in flight Their slate blue wings would flash and gleam with flicking glinting lights The new mown hay, bright summer sun, our hats were made of straw To quench our thirst, a quart of water in a canning jar On one long pass the mower noise put out a baby rabbit I shed my boots to run it down  to see if I could grab it It darted left then right then left and straight and when it did I stepped on it and skinned it from it’s tail up to it’s head All pink and red, it throbbed, alive, black flies began their peck I picked it up, with one firm twist, I broke that poor thing’s neck On that same day I stabbed a dirt pitchfork through my foot I got a bad infection and for a week I just stayed put I sometimes think if there be gods, they saw that step so cruel And they then partially invoked the “eye-for-an-eye” rule. And as I think about it now, that summer’s days’ long gone The hayfield’s smell and the swallow’s dive I’m sure will carry on. If I get into those same straits and flounder on death’s seas I hope someone will have the heart to do the same for me.