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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,
in the western sky.

                                      - bardsmaid