No words will come from the high tech cubicles
The free bowls of golden organic apples
Peets coffee urns
Company umbrellas
bikes and helmets
The piped in virtual jukebox
Rows of red bull and mountain dew.
They will come
after the wing back South
the jet lag
the airplane cold
From still young redwoods
lining the wide flat streets
Winter fruiting pyracantha
Olive trees like the
Golan Heights
oblivious to attack
and
Surrender.
