Write a four line poem about: uncertainty.
Came home from a very hot market with only ten pounds of nectarines, four peaches, and about twenty pounds of a new variety of nectarines (we only brought about forty pounds to begin with). The new ones aren't as nice looking and were not ripe enough to eat, so I'm not surprised that they had trouble competing with our main variety.
Anyway. Point is: that was another good market.
Adam and Becky are away next weekend and it's also the Peach Fest Parade on Saturday, which means unloading your vehicle, parking elsewhere, and then after closing going to get your vehicle and packing up again. So, since I don't want to deal with that on my own, I'll be skipping it as well.
The following week... well, the remainder of the season is likely full of markets that won't be worth splitting three ways. So, at most, we'll be alternating weekends with Adam and Becky. At least... I could be done with farmer markets for the year. We shall see.
Is this the end?
How will I know?
Will someone come
To tell me to go?