It was a mist haven morning
The fog thick as could be
But what my sight allowed
Surely surprised me

It was a road trot on by few
Especially for my profession
But still was important for the news
As I was an investigative journalist with the blues

My feet took a step at a time
All throughout the foggy brine
But when I opened my ears
I was shocked at what I could hear

Footsteps echoing in the distance
Sounding off labored and loud
But when I saw the man
He was grinning and proud

He bared the appearance of a simplistic man
One who stood there rugged and tanned
I did perceive that indeed
He had carried burdens throughout this land

I hesitated a moment on what I should say
But then I noticed a wagon full of hay
Not in bundles or bails or anything out of his way
But a simple haystack that the moist air added weight to

To me this was perplexing
Something foreign or alien to my mind
The extra labor that this task confined
So to this I prompted

“What’s this, this labor so strenuous,
This labor done at the crack of dawn
When normal men would be in sleep
Or waking and fawning their day?”

He replied in a parched voice
One that cracked and whistled
But was full of energy all the while
The enthusiasm was fantastically instilled

“This is for my pleasure,
not a strenuous demeanor
For I was challenged
And my competitive nature lingers.”

A challenge he spoke of
And to this I further wondered
So I used a bank of questions
And further plundered

“What did this challenge compose of,
that it may require a man such as yourself
To impose a rigorous task
Endangering yourself in the wee bits of morning
That puts you at the risk of robbery and mourning?
And with this known, what makes you pursue,
This task that is so imparted to me as a mere clue?”

A light flickered in his eye
Of youthful bliss
A flame kindled in his spirit
As he said this

“I am to find the needle in the haystack!”
He said proudly
“But the way I’m doing so, I am doing not loudly.
I’ve chosen to walk with this wagon of mine
And to let each straw of hay carefully fall off in time
Until the wagon is bare
And only the needle lay there.”

I finally was clued in
But this concept wasn’t quite glued in

A quality of patience I admired
But I still wondered how he did not grow tired

With this racking in my head
I nodded it so
And further questioned
This righteous soul

“Why not use your hands?
Wouldn’t that make quicker work?
And also decrease this burden
For a proud soul so outright.”

He chuckled as I spoke
And to this I was deterred
He leaned into my view
So he was not blurred
And spoke these words
So careful and obscure

“If I were to dig with frantic impatience
I would appear as a prideful hog
Only ready for the trip into the bay of losers-

Because if I were to throw the hay around
I would in turn throw the needle about.
Where it would be lost in the jungle of grass
That lies so by our feet.

And if I were to dissect piece by piece
I would have nothing done in leave.
So with either of these
I would fail this feat

For a week I have allotted
And cows I have to feed
So I use this hay to my advantage
Baiting them to my feet

And so I find a median of these
By letting nature take care partially
And in turn increasing my own nurture
In the great virtue of patience to beat.”

I found these words delightful
And ever so insightful
And so
Truly touched by these words
I in turn wished the man good luck
And in doing so my own luck changed
As the fog cleared all so strange

It didn’t lift or dissipate
Rather it followed the man in his leave
Ready to stun another traveler
By this perplexing deed

I received wisdom this day
From the man and his hay
Even in the light of my dismay
I decided to not waste life in haste

So I carried on my travels
At a much slower pace
Looking back so often
To try and catch a glimpse and see
If the man in the fog
Had succeeded in his deed