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Floyd Avenue

40 acres of us
is Thompson Seedless grapes
that August sundries and mature rows with brown loam
beneath barefoot children unsupervised.
Seven miles west of the deadly
99, off Shaw Avenue a way of life persists
void of gridlock
void of meth labs
void of preservatives.
Blue tractor air-conditioned
with my father inside, that took
sweltering summers to buy because
he was taught to
never live beyond your means.
The smell each spring
of sulfur
dioxide, like a match struck
to light every star
in the obsidian night.
Home is the blood
red tail feathers of the hawk, suncatching
rays reminding us why
we wake.

On Floyd Avenue
where the green grapes grow
on vines
that cycle out like we do,
deciduously.

--Angela S., Adult