Last Moment

I returned one last time to my old field in Amagansett. 

The field had been disced, the soil quite dry. 

I was visited by a young fox; it hardly knew I was there.

Two-thirty now, in Southold, on my last visit to the barn. It's quiet, the air is still.

I offer my curing racks to another farmer, and I receive some heirloom tomatoes, sweet potatoes, onions, and pickled beets in return. I hand off my French shallots too, because this farmer has chef clients and I would like to see these get more attention than I could give them. 

And now the drive west under the long, slow sinking of the late autumn sun, heart just a little heavy.