First, the glow of frost melting and
the coolie hats on pickers, orange on
green or maroon along the lettuce rows.
Each side, for several kilometres
the memorial Dutch Elms fragile, wispy,
scantily clad in last golden leaves.
Over the river then to view progress
on our contentious bypass. Gangs
of machinery lumber with purpose.
Up now on the freeway, listening to one of
Haydn's twelve London symphonies, from
the world our ancestors left in 1792,
realizing they would never have heard it.
"Music that jumps up and down, has fun!"
says Margaret. Warm now, I remove gloves.