Hay, chuck-will's-widow

I drove to the farm this afternoon. The clouds were breaking up and made shadows on the land. Something about the light and maybe the crispness of the air made things look sharper: the forested hills in the distance, the grass in the pastures which has sprung up tall in the past week. Some of the farmers have just cut their first crop of hay: the juiciest, sweetest crop, full of clover and buttercups. Round bales scatter one field, mown drying green hay lays across another, the horses eagerly stealing bites like a child swiping cookie dough before it goes in the oven.

In bed now, my head near a window, can hear a chuck-will's-widow calling somewhere. My dad has told me he heard it for the first time more than a week ago.