Burlap Bags

I live alone; I pick pecans. When leaves are dry or wet upon the ground, I thrash the trees. I break from branches undropped, green-husked nuts and pull the fleshy hulls from harder shells. I put them in my musty burlap bag. My bent back aches. I pick the nuts that fall to earth -- blown by wind, wrenched from over-weighted twigs. I store this trove with acrid smells in burlap bags. The nut man calls but twice a year. He brings the news; we drink a beer. He pays me well, refreshes my supply of dusty burlap hell.