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I ride out to the flower fields,
leave behind the sleeping town.
Lands in chocolate-tan and coffee grounds
lie dormant,
their only life
the wispy breath of John Deere
dissolving in the air.

Warp-rows of broccoli
expand into full carpet;
celery rows stand in thick formation.
Flower spice hitches a ride in
on the ocean wind
while field workers warm their hands
over a cardboard fire.

Sun rises above the hills,
spilling pale yellow warmth.
My shadow rides along the fields' ridge,
haloed from behind,
and the moon hangs pale,
forgotten,
in the western sky.

                                      - bardsmaid