My second cut is finally done. Late again this year, and wondrously, thankfully, yielding almost twice as much as last September's second cut. It is beautiful hay.
September hay is a gamble. Nights are cool. Mornings are foggy and wet. Rain comes and sits for a while, usually in relation to whatever tropical storm or hurricane is hitting the Atlantic coast. You can cut hay, sure, but getting it to dry in a timely fashion is another story.
We got lucky. Hay was cut on Sunday, and despite nights in the 30's with frost (every one of 'em) and foggy mornings (every one of 'em), the blue skies held and temperatures climbed near 70 during the daytime. My hay was dry enough to bale on Wednesday afternoon.
Now it is in the barn, 147 bales (or, not quite 30 bales per acre, a far cry from the guaranteed 100 per acre I get year after year for 1st cutting, yet much better than last year's droughty second cutting hay which only yielded 15 bales an acre).
147 lovely, soft, delicious smelling bales. A year's supply of hay for Old Man, who at 29 years old doesn't eat the coarser textured first cutting so well any more.
Hay in the barn. Security. Contentment. Happiness.
inside the loft
Apparently one of our cats feels secure with all this hay too. Because when I went to take pictures of the hay this morning, I found these nestled in the chaff: