Citrus lined hillside pass, we rode it

wayward rumrunners, farm honey dressing our lips.

Drunk cheer bellowed from our missile van,

four motivated passengers, riding

triumphantly to shore.

All bore a mischief, pride from nights

inside the dense tropiforest. We skipped

through rotting fields, rusted fruit

trains, and trails of dried molasses.

Our eyes colonized

the virgin green mounds

as we planned and planned.