“Make hay while the sun shines.

You can’t find that needle in the haystack.

Time to hit the hay.

That same rain that drowns the rate grows the hay.

Shakespeare in some play or other: While we lay tumbling in the hay.

Mae West said, ‘A real farmer. He spent his childhood in the wheat, and his marriage in the hay.’”

“Blue, cut it out,” I hissed regretting my “let’s take a rural road-trip” suggestion.

He looked up, perturbed, from his cell phone, “Just trying to pass the time while we’re stuck in this traffic tie up.” (97 words)

image: Sandra Crook

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