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The
town
,
then
,
later
in
the
day
.
And
yet
another
harvest
.
Grandfather
stood
on
the
wide
front
porch
like
a
captain
surveying
the
vast
unmotioned
calms
of
a
season
dead
ahead
.
He
questioned
the
wind
and
the
untouchable
sky
and
the
lawn
on
which
stood
Douglas
and
Tom
to
question
only
him
.
"
Grandpa
,
are
they
ready
?
Now
?
"
Grandfather
pinched
his
chin
.
"
Five
hundred
,
a
thousand
,
two
thousand
easy
.
Yes
,
yes
,
a
good
supply
.
Pick
’
em
easy
,
pick
’
em
all
.
A
dime
for
every
sack
delivered
to
the
press
!
"
"
Hey
!
"
The
boys
bent
,
smiling
.
They
picked
the
golden
flowers
.
The
flowers
that
flooded
the
world
,
dripped
off
lawns
onto
brick
streets
,
tapped
softly
at
crystal
cellar
windows
and
agitated
themselves
so
that
on
all
sides
lay
the
dazzle
and
glitter
of
molten
sun
.
"
Every
year
,
"
said
Grandfather
.
"
They
run
amuck
;
I
let
them
.
Pride
of
lions
in
the
yard
.
Stare
,
and
they
burn
a
hole
in
your
retina
.
A
common
flower
,
a
weed
that
no
one
sees
,
yes
.
But
for
us
,
a
noble
thing
,
the
dandelion
.
"
So
,
plucked
carefully
,
in
sacks
,
the
dandelions
were
carried
below
.
The
cellar
dark
glowed
with
their
arrival
.
The
wine
press
stood
open
,
cold
.
A
rush
of
flowers
warmed
it
.
The
press
,
replaced
,
its
screw
rotated
,
twirled
by
Grandfather
,
squeezed
gently
on
the
crop
.
"
There
.
.
.
so
.
.
.
"
