The 101 slopes like a spine bent too long.
Camarillo yawns wide in the morning hush,
valley stretching slow, hills bare-shouldered,
fields glistening, half-asleep, half-prayer.
Lemon trees blink slow, bruised gold in the mist.
Figtrees call a name behind a rusted gate.
Sagebrush whispers gossip through chainlink,
its breath full of stories that outlive the tellers.
To the east, the nursery stirs,
plastic sheeting *****,
row tags flutter in the wind.
A thermos, abandoned, rests by a wheelbarrow.
Mud boots, discarded,
wait beside the shed
like questions against wood planks.
No footsteps follow.
I never asked where they went.
I was here with them,
but only as a pair of eyes,
that never opened wide enough.
I worked inside this valley with my back.
With my knees.
With the same hands,
now soft on the wheel,
muscle memory steering roads
as if nothing ever left,
as if the ghosts still ride along.
I pass a strawberry field, stitched in silence,
no voices rising in laughter today,
no corrido escaping from a shirt pocket radio,
no teasing between the furrows,
no calloused hands tossing tools,
only the soft ticking of irrigation
and the hush of work
that now waits for no one.
This silence has been swept, labeled,
nothing out of place but sadness.
The strip mall stands like a broken promise,
painted stucco, faded western wear,
alongside roadside markets
missing the opening crew.
Still, the hills lean in to listen,
velvet green with memory,
quiet as folded hands.
Even now, under this sun,
the dust knows who knelt here.
Who sang into the rows,
who fled before sundown,
their names erased from the ledger
but carved into the earth.
And in soil’s hush, their names still root and rise.
In the aftermath of the immigration raids, the migrant workers I knew in Southern California, especially in Ventura County, began vanishing overnight. Friends I shared shifts with, broke bread with, waved to across the nursery lots and strawberry rows, disappeared without a word. Their absence is not abstract, it’s in the empty chairs at the diner, the shuttered produce stalls, the silence where songs and stories used to rise. These are the hands we rely on, the hands that shape the harvest, and now they hang suspended in uncertainty. The fields remember them, even when the papers do not.
