With each rusty earth pin pulled up, I remember the day I put them in, shiny new. Each scrap of half-degraded twine I recover from edges of beds recalls spring’s unrolling and tying fresh orange kerosine-scented definers. Pulling out poles, dismantling bean town, rolling up row cover, composting squash vines. All the undoing. Transforming the field space back into level quietude, ready for blankets of snow, ready to be built anew next year. We rise, we fall. The wheel continues to turn.