The evening sun shone on their backs as Teresè and Valencia traipsed through their fields, plucking swathes of tiny red berries from overhead as they went. The trees whispered to them, whisking them towards the ripest fruits; their fingers shone with sugary juice that they licked off as they went. Always present in the distance was the soft buzz of wiring, and Valencia hummed along with it inbetween conversations with the trees.

Baskets filled as the moon rose. Valencia’s mind slipped away into the starry night as Teresè became only more focused, the dark quieting the distractions of her eyes so her nose could focus on the scent of ready leaves carrying ripe berries.

“Do you suppose,” mused Valencia, “that the City will ever take over our mountain?”

Teresè kept at her plucking. “No,” she said.

“We will always tend our vines so that they grow through the windows, our trees so that their roots withstand concrete foundations. We will keep our hands pink with the stains of picked berries and never the callouses of a burdened labor; our real world is here, on our hillside, where the support and pleasures of the City touch us but never take us over.”

Valencia gazed, smiling, in the direction of the City. “We can keep both!” she mused, and continued her dance into the stars.

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