One decade ago, the orange grove saw a blight. The citrus trees were absolved of their juices; the ground absorbed them.

Cracks split and spread; the ground lightened to the color of camels. Sour liquid flowed into the dark cracks and the trees gathered dust. If you were a giant and ripped them from the earth, you could draw a hopscotch board with your mottled chalk.

The grove became a home for bulls. I run past them, towards the lake at the end of the dirt road. They run parallel, hooves echoing on hollow ground. When they can go no further, they flank the picket fence and watch.