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Ploughing 

The farmer has ploughed the land around the almond trees
 the earth is rust red I took up a handful it was lumpy, full
 of dead plants and still warm from the sun.
A breeze was blowing shaking dust of trees and upending 
parasols in gardens of those who do not till this land, but 
want to be a part of the rustic idyll, tend rose bushes with
gloved hands to avoid callouses on hands used to type on
a word processor, where they try and fail to share the peace
they have found among small farmers travail. 

I have the camera with me, but use it not how does
one shoot a picture of the wind or branches of a tree 
moving rhythmically as the second dancer at a Bolshoi 
performance attended by the prime minister.
Think I will leave the wind to a painter friend of mine.

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