Her father calls this sort of time 'high hay days'. It's a good name, she thinks; all the world seems golden and slow and hay dust floats on the heavy air. The hay piles high on the trailers and they sway at five miles an hour down the roads, leaving sticks of straw caught in the hedgerows. Her brother stands on the top in the field, hauling each bale into place as her father throws them up to him. Their forearms are scratched and swollen with hay mites. This is the time of year she loves the best. She takes a sip of her lemonade, and squeezes his hand.
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