April showers give way to a warm late spring breeze.
Hay fields are cut and the windrows are raked.
The wagons are pulled from their ruts of neglect,
dug by the icy hands of Old Man Winter.
The baler is greased and loaded with twine.
Five hundred bales to bale and the farmers are itching
to make the dust fly, as the sweet smell of clover and orchard grass
waft through the air like the irresistible aromas of a fresh baked berry pie.
The Dream Machine starts chugging,
and bales soar through the air,
and wagons start to rock with an old familiar sway.

Before too long the dew starts to fall,
as darkness bears its cloak,
the farmer brings his days catch to the barn for the night,
while the Hands reminisce about the good times they have had.
Tomorrow dawns a new day,
when the dance begins again.
Like a kid on Christmas morning, I can't wait till then.