Coffee Sleeve Stories

Harvest Moon

Beth King

The harvest moon has just bestowed itself upon the dark night sky, the first time we’ve seen our moon since the season of the midnight sun. Effortlessly, I find myself in the dirt, damp from the first frost. The air smells of highbush cranberries. In the morning, the sun penetrates your cheeks like a goodbye kiss. The potatoes—purple, yellow, red—loosen like gold from the ground. I pull the stems, shake, one, two, three—even the little ones count. We’ll eat them all year, give them to friends. Oh, I’ll miss when harvest time ends.

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