camarillo field

I pull across the white fog line
along the edge of the road,
not out of drowsiness,
but wide awake to the field
bursting with autumn joy, 

pumpkins and squash lying
haphazardly, spilling out of neat,
lines and rows, plump and orange,
framed by trees and gentle ascents
that form a glory-singing vale. 

A blanket of mist hides the hills,
and out of nowhere black crows
swoop and scoop great globs
of meat and seeds from
the provenance below. 

This is a Sunday sanctuary of
fruitfulness, of flapping and
flexing and freedom to roam
and rest, in quiet reverence to
the God of ripening pleasures.

Liz McFadzean