by Charles Goodrich
I'm picking beans when the geese fly over, Blue Lake pole beans I figure to blanch and freeze. Maybe pick some dilly beans. And there will be more beans to give to the neighbors, forcibly if necessary.
The geese come over so low I can hear their wings creak, can see their tail feathers making fine adjustments. They slip-stream along so gracefully, riding on each other's wind, surfing the sky. Maybe after the harvest I'll head south. Somebody told me Puerto Vallarta is nice. I'd be happy with a cheap room. Rice and beans at every meal. Swim a little, lay on the beach.
Who are you kidding, Charles? You don't like to leave home in the winter. Spring, fall, or summer either. True. But I do love to watch those wild geese fly over, feel these impertinent desires glide through me. Then get back to work.
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