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Picking
[Deer Park, August 24, 2013]

Logging further west, the road is an endless sandbox
Sucking at the tires, wiggling the steering without warning,
White-fist driving required, and after a time, peace.
A broad-wing hawk soars past on a downward
Trajectory, aimed at an unsuspecting target.
The berries are black and powdery blue, so ripe they fall
When touched. The dog eats beside us as we pick,
Playing bear, he loves wild fruit. After a few chomps,
 He races away at high speed, making flybys
Through the bloob fields, his pie-shaped head up, hair flowing
In his slipstream, the only sounds heard, wind and his paws on
Parched reindeer lichen, a reminder of how we need rain,
With the wind howling around us, we can smell
 A storm in the offing, later, when the sun goes down.
She says, I awoke hungry and I’m still hungry,
Can we go now? The dog leaps up into the truck,
And we sail out on the deep sugar-sand two-track
Roads, yawing and chattering our lugubrious way
Fine tan sand dust flowing in the rusted door panels,
We head steadily towards our diminutive cabin.
Spicy unstuffed peppers, wild bloobs on vanilla ice cream
Just rewards for picking prowess, or is it just dessert?
How do you spell dessert? I ask her and she tells me,
Dessert is so good, you want more and two esses is more.


 
 
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