Mariana's Table - Richard Shindell

Out on highway 215 the trucks are hauling wheat grain

Apples, soy beans, good red wine to the docks at Ensenada

The camioneros sit up high and smoke their black tobacco

In another hour they’ll shift it down and pull off for the night

Down the road, not far now Mariana’s just arriving

With her empanadas and coolers full of cold cold beer

There’s a stand of eucalyptus trees just this side of Brandsen

In harvest season, rain or shine, she’s out there every night

One-by-one they rumble in, rattling like Panzers

And raising dust clouds, raising hell in 30 year-old Benzes

They descend like generals whose victory’s all but certain

They stroll through camp rallying for one last push

It’s getting late, it’s time to go, the southern cross is rising

Mariana’s work is done, at least until tomorrow

Anyone who’s still awake is over by the fire

Where the talk is all of China’s rise, and the latest from the union

Which they’d gladly die for if ever they were called to

But for now they’re just turning and waving as she drives away