Fog hovers above the fields,
Shifting shapes while
Fingers of morning
Stretch the sky.
The spring, still new elsewhere
Has grown lazy and lush,
The undergrowth pushing
The kudzu higher, higher.
Westward-pointed shadows
Draw the eye east
To where the horizon
Gleams gold –
And in countless groves
Workers pick first oranges
And drop them into crates
Soaked with dew.
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