Write a four line poem about: desolation.
Nothing to do with the market. Completely to do with being smoked in, yet again. The main culprit this time appears to be a wildfire south of the border. Well, that and the wind that has carried its smoke into our section of the valley.
Either way, it is very creepy and surreal and post-apocalyptic out there.
Market went pretty well. Sold 18 of the 20 bunches of carrots, 9 of the crates of Gala apples, all of the corn, Macintosh, Honey Crisp, nectarines, peaches, zucchini, and pickling cukes, and a good chunk of everything else I brought.
I had to borrow one of the vendors next door in order to get a bathroom break, and then a friend stopped by just in time for me to run and get lunch. So... it worked out, but I'm thinking I might need to arrange at least a little bit of planned help for next week.
All around us
Is a towering wall of grey.
We need to run...
But how do we find a way?