Autumn was taking the Subaru to the farm on Black Oak Ridge, backing up to the hay bales, sliding some in, stacking them on the lawn like igloo blocks, symmetrical, plunging the sharp scarecrow post deep into the heart of one. Eventually, after rains had made the outer layer soft, much later than the neighbors wanted me to, carrying each to the far back corner of the yard, tawny strands falling, marking my path. Working the tough grass through the compost, jagged pieces scratching my arm exposed beyond workgloves. The rest of the year, finding fat straws throughout the car.