And planting takes place at the peak of the autumn change, under clear blue skies, with the sun still high enough to warm the days, yet low enough that it seeks out the eye with its glintings. The tractor scarcely labors as it drags the machine through the soil, diesel engine rumbling away, while behind the transplanter scrapes and squeaks along, and cuts a deep crease, a vaginal opening in the moist dark earth, into which the twin riders, testicular in function, drop the white-skinned cloves, one at a time, one after another, hundreds by the row, thousands by the day.
— A Garlic Testament, Stanley Crawford
P. Powell: Are you topping the tomato plants, or need I set up a vigil for hundred-legged predators?
W. Songs: I’ve not topped any tomato plants. I thought it was you??
PP: Something is Out There.
“Diva”? I would wear this pin if it said “cup” instead
Cedar key, FL! Nice place fer chowder—
cold beer and Moby Dick
Yonder! A fish!
Then throw it back
is mad pretty sans skeeters!