I want to stop here, in the space between
        the seasons. Not summer, overflowed
with dead heat and dried rye. Not winter, 
        wrapped in dull dampness and long nights.

I want to stop here, before the first frost,
        before gold and russet cover my lawn
and our retriever begins to search the sky,
        nose high in the bird scented air

to track the migration of geese. Rice
        is heavy headed and ready for harvest.
The pomegranates are not ripe, though
        darkness holds enough chill to shiver,

and I can close my eyes and rub my feet
        along your calf.

Rebecca Dougherty was born, raised, and lives in the Central Valley of California. She has been involved in agriculture her entire life, starting as a seasonal field worker in her teens. She has graduate degrees in education and technology. Currently, she writes poetry with several workshop groups in the San Francisco Bay area.