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June 8, 2014
Memories of that toss through blueberry country still percolate here today, and quite fondly, I must say.

We tooled past the torrid fields with glee
past bushes with yields far as eye could see.

But yet it prompted queasy queries as to what exactly happens in a mono-cropping situation like this when puerile pestiferous predilections prevail.
Not a soul in sight to ask tonight.

“¡Cuidado!”, “¡Peligro!”, of course the ubiquitous “Pesticidos” and maybe “No entre” signs might pepper any given place of azure agricultural purveyance, yielding self-explanatory sternly instructive text as to how catastrophes are, at least temporarily, staved off.