Every morning, one tall class of silky smooth
revitalizing heaven. Poured from the center of the
fruit from which it was born. The pulp plucked from
the mixing basin and thrown carelessly into the trash.
Oranges, straight from the sunny soaked fields of
Southern Florida, are picked by the farmer, in his dirt ridden
jeans and baseball cap, splitting at the seams. Flown in a plane,
or driven in a big truck, cruising the east coast. Passing cow
pastures and windmills preoccupied with saving the planet.
A deadly affliction of the earth, soaking up the sun much
like the fields of Florida. Never letting its deep rays of
anguish escape back into the atmosphere. The world
has grown hot, scalding. The great ice mountains
of Alaska have become mere puddles of cold water,
pushing ever so slowly to the brink of evaporation. A
tear falls as every drop descends into the muddy ground.
-Rachel
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