Every morning
Leaning on the half-wall
Waiting until their cups get empty
I hear their conversations

Today, it was crops
And more importantly
Duck season, coming in six weeks
And four days

The talk of men,
Comfortable in themselves
Pressed in close, six to a table
Meant for four

Men with dirty hands
And worn jeans
Caps blackened by the dust
Of a thousand acres of bean field

I love this sound
The low murmur of voices
The ebb and flow, like a warm tide
With occasional waves of laughter

They solve the problems
Of the entire world
From their seats along the wall
Slurping coffee and smoking

They joke and banter and kid
With the easy familiarity
That comes from belonging,
To this particular piece of ground

I let this sound wash over me
And let it fill my soul 
With comfort and belonging
And peace