I spoke with my favorite farmer him telling me how as he packed my eggs and garlic scapes protectively into a sack allowing me unbroken or bruised carriage nestled onto the rack of my bicycle just this morning as he walked to the barns at 4am how overhead he heard a noise usually there are no noises save for a gentle rustling or easy cluck of chickens stretching their wings to the dawn he heard a noise and when his gaze caught the source he discovered five jets criss-crossing the sky not fighter jets but passenger traveling west to east we speculated together on the red-eye from Pacific to Atlantic he and I pausing in unison a kind of reverence a sort of prayer both caught up in the shared image of our imaginings those people those tired traveling bodies hunkered into the economy section with maybe dreaming child sprawled across their lap themselves envisioning the bodies down here on this blue-grass earth they pass over waking to this one new day
runon: at the farmer’s market just now
