The sun never gets too hot on the west side;
instead of vineyards we had raspberry fields;
acre after acre of tangled vines.

In other towns, the trucks smell of black exhaust
but here, the trucks trail the scent of ripe raspberries as they roar by.

I went to the upick and wandered through the field, down the row of vines until the farmer was out of sight
and filled my little bucket for jam, for pies, for something to create.
The air is perfectly still but still the dust sticks to my legs.
Children call from row to row with red-stained mouths and the bees hum

and the entire world is reduced to these 5 acres in this moment.