Apricot Afternoons in the Central Valley

In a summertime kitchen,

The hissing whisper of an old woman’s gossip

Under the dings of ceramic, cast iron clangs and

The thwaps of the back screen door chasing kids

With freshly picked great-grandfather tomatoes.

Soon, the afternoon wind will pick up,

Gradually pushing the cigar men inside

From their circle of backyard chairs.

Then, the mocking birds will come

Eating the last of June’s apricots,

Sweet and perfect.

 

 

 

 

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