Sunday, October 31, 2010


I awake at the sound of my little son crying
In complaint of the morning chill

I cuddle him back to sleep
And step out to the backyard

A thin layer of frost coats the grass
I pluck a soft persimmon off the branch

And bite into the cold sweet flesh
The sky is blue and clear

Except for long strands
of white clouds

I decide to walk the two blocks
To the edge of town

There, a freshly plowed field
Stretches like a red border

Or churned battle field
That protects the last farms and ranches

Along the foothills
Of the Sierra Nevadas

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