Baling Hay with Glen From an old head injury, Glen’s hands twitched. When the wires burst inside the baler I’d take a break on the partly stacked sled. He was patient, never cursed much. The wire in his hand pecked like a chicken at a grain under glass. He didn’t want my help. Work was just the air he breathed, setbacks but commas in his long sentence. His mostly bald head bobbled as he talked and the halting words waited...
