Laden with arugula and figs the wagon
bumps along the winding gravel road. I
sit on wooden planks at the edge of
this bounty, legs dangling, sipping water

jugged from a mountain stream;
squeeze of lemon. Suddenly, a diving
hawk spooks the horse who veers then
steadies but not before the wagon tips,

the (low fat) chickens, nested in the straw
flap and squawk and I careen then tumble
off the wagon, laden with arugula and figs,
fresh apricots and high fiber bread,

plummet off that wagon and land squarely
onto, into, that place where I go when my
wagon teeters, wavers
spills me.