Semi-Daily Scribbles

Zeke made himself comfortable on the back porch, with his pipe and strong black tea. He settled in after a long day of words and tones and facial tics that revealed everyone was a liar. The packers wanted the fruit of his labor at a cost next to nothing, and used words like channels, shares, margins to tell him so. Zeke got the runaround and very little eye contact. The strained exchanges made him feel out of place. Lonely. But Zeke had his hounds to keep him company, and dark, rich earth to work. The orchards were a riot of shining prizes as he looked out over rows of gold, green, and red. Such a contradictory season of abundance and decline. Riches and want. He'd have to come up with a better plan. Zeke would have a good harvest, but his circle shrunk to the size of one of his ripe, delicious apples.