The Hay Rake

 

I stand alone, forgotten, and rusting in the field along the fence line.  My tines arch gracefully behind the seat where the farmer once sat as he guided his powerful but gentle team over the hay field collecting the hay into rows so it could be picked up into the hay wagons. 

The big horses have been gone now for years and I was converted to fit a tractor. My iron wheels that once glided so effortlessly are now frozen in time as I sit waiting for someone to remember the old ways from years gone by.  

I sit forgotten, a reminder of a gentler time when the world moved at a slower pace when man, beast and machine worked as one to bring in the harvest from the field to the barn.