“I love your farm, Alejandro.”
He had led her out into the hop fields. Most were harvested, but a few of the later-maturing varieties still stood. Becky was glad she’d gotten here before the final harvest and had a chance to walk the fields. She liked remembering the smell of rich earth and blooming plants later when she brewed.
At either end of the rows were massive wooden poles leaning outward and driven deep into the soil. Wires anchored straight down from their high tops and into the soil. Between each pair of outward-slanting poles a high wire stretched down the length of the field with only occasional supporting verticals along the way. In between the poles, green hop vines climbed up vertical lines that dangled from the high wire.
There was a serenity among the graceful towering
