Bale -5minutefreewrite

The hay soaked up the sun. It was still the pale green of a faded, chipped coffee mug that said "Top 'o the mornin' to you" that you bought 10 years ago at a garage sale and that was probably first purchased in the 70s. It didn't crackle or poke yet, but the hay looked distinctly not wet.

Tom wanted it to stop drying. The sooner it dried, the sooner he'd have itchy arms and have to spend the whole day sweaty and smelling of the tractor's gasoline. Normally, Tom didn't mind. It made him feel rugged, and he could let his mind wander. He'd draw dragons in the clouds, and imagine he had power over the grasses and it was he who made the breeze blow or withheld its relief. But this week, his dad was at a solar energy conference and his mom had gone with The Goddesses to some writing weekend. So now he needed to think about each step of the process. Bale when it was thoroughly dry, but soon enough that he took no risk with the rain that the forecast promised.

But it wasn't ready yet, regardless. So he ran inside for a glass of lemonade.