Anna climbed the ladder, basket at her hip, and began picking. Down the row, Miguel was singing, low and sweet, the way he had. Chasing away the gloom of the workers’ conversation in the field house before setting out that morning.
They were silly to worry. There was no contamination.
The sun was in her eyes as she peered between the branches to the gleaming roofline of the chemical plant just beyond the farm.
What were they afraid of?
The cherries were never larger. Brighter.
Miguel had stopped singing.
Anna frowned.
Her stained fingertips began to burn, skin peeling away.
Author’s Note: I’m a conservationist at heart. And also a bit on the paranoid side when it comes to agriculture vs. corporate ‘progress’.
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