Today the old gray hoodie I'm wearing smells like pesticide. Such a contradictory smell. It makes me sick. I recall trying to shower it off behind the tarp of my parent's outdoor shower before crashing out in the back of the bus. I wore this hoodie too often on those early mornings. I haven't washed it enough since.
Today I walk to the edge of a lookout. The mountains are hidden in an upside down bowl of fog. For some reason I'm convinced it's snowing and wonder where the line will drop to. I push my hands deeper into my pockets. Why does it look like the end of autumn? The beginning of winter. Looking out my eyes follow the back road, the river gully, endless orchard rows.With a jolt I realize I'm standing directly above the fruitstand I worked at last year. The trees right below me were sort picked a few short months ago. Laughing with gristly old men who let me take the easy branches. Sitting on overturned bins I'd eat mini culls and drink lukewarm coffee before returning to the stand to sort and sell the apples.
From here I can look farther back. Cherries. I have five of those seasons on my record. Across the valley I make out the block of orchards I hit last July. I can outpick some of the hippis, now. I'm still not a highballer. Quebecois dreadlocks and Mexican accents in the rows next to me as I affixed my stickers on wire handles. M17. They claim to pick faster stoned. They may well be right. Walking down the road I felt like society's rebel in my canvas harness and Thai pants.
Today I stand in this brush taking it all in. Wrapped in this damned hoodie that smells of poison and yesterday.