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Christina Petrides

Pea Picking

 

The breeze turns a wobbly wheel of crickets

And blades on the tin windmill clatter

 

He drops his fork onto his close-scraped plate

And gulps the last sweet mouthful of iced tea

 

The blue truck idles outside the screen door

While a lazy late summer sun burns overhead

 

He reapplies his wide brimmed hat

Rolls down his stained cotton sleeves

 

Whitewall tires bump through grey dust 

Where purple hulls hang from limber vines

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