We have blue sky
this morning. It was a hot, blue sky weekend as well. M. spent time at the farm watering squash and tomatoes and eggplant, hoping they survive until a real rain arrives. Crops are hurting, there's no arguing about that.
A long lay of light, the bird calls, the blue sky. Can anybody complain of beauty, except this - unrelenting, it hurts the crops.
It is supposed to be a hot, muggy week. There is a knifing edge to the morning as I step outside, moist, a mildness you cannot trust anymore than you can trust the promise of a man with starving children. He will do what he has to. When you have nothing to eat, he says, you cannot eat the law. A loaf of bread would be so much more than a judge's order.
The county fellows got a little black top on Highway E this past Friday - about half a mile. That's a start. Now I see the work trucks stretched in a line ahead of m. I stop for a man with a sign. I move slowly past men and equipment and the smell of asphalt. Here we go, boys, here we go. Clap, clap.
The farmer is at his flowerbeds again this morning, Five Corners. The push of his spade slices weeds into their eternity. The weeds bleed on the angels.
In Ripon, the stale leftovers of a weekend festival in the park at the south end of town. Time to pack it up and move on, the carny fellows say to each other. This moving on, moving on, this is their life.
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