Wind whips 
and blows dryness in my face.
The sun is playing peek-a-boo.
There's a chill to it.
Jets fly low and booming.
I'm on the fifth row.
Moving from bundle to soil. 
Hands craving moisture.
Nails taking on a light brown hue.
Body unsure of these positions. 
Fingers probing.
It's been hours 
and there are hours to go. 
This is the way of it. 
The over and over. 
Refining.
Transforming. 
And unpleasantness,
discipline. 
Learnt at the school of candy onions. 


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