Pitchfork

The barn held the last of the summer hay, and it had to go up to the loft before the wet weather set in. Nyra climbed the ladder and stood among the rafters while the girl waited below with the pitchfork. Morning light came through the gaps in the boards and lay in long pale bars across the straw. A book gathers what can be set down in a line and counted, and leaves the rest to the one who was there.

The girl set the tines under a heap of hay and lifted, and the fork was heavier than it looked. “How many forkfuls will fill the loft?” she asked. “Count them if you like, and you will have a number by the end,” Nyra said. “But the number will not tell you how your arms feel when the loft is full.”

So the girl worked and did not count. She swung the hay up and Nyra caught it with the rake and spread it across the boards, and the two of them found a slow and steady rhythm between them. The pile below grew smaller while the loft grew deep and soft, and the dust turned to gold where it crossed the bars of light.

“Will you write the hay in the book?” the girl asked when the last of it was up. “I will write that the loft was filled before the rain,” Nyra answered. “The book keeps such a thing gladly. It has no line for the swing of the fork, or for the good ache that tells you the work is finished.”

They climbed down as the light moved off the straw and the barn went quiet again. The girl leaned the pitchfork against the wall and looked up at the full warm loft above them. The book keeps the count of the forkfuls, and you keep the swing of it.