out on highway 215 the trucks are hauling wheat grain
apples, soy beans, good red wine to the docks at 
Ensenada

the camioneros sit up high and smoke their black 
tobacco
in another hour they'll shift it down and pull off for 
the night

down the road, not far now Mariana's just arriving
with her empanadas and coolers full of cold cold beer

there's a stand of eucalyptus trees just this side of 
Brandsen
in harvest season, rain or shine, she's out there every 
night

one-by-one they rumble in, rattling like Panzers
Benzes

they descend like generals whose victory's all but 
certain
they stroll through camp rallying for one last push

it's getting late, it's time to go, the southern cross 
is rising
Mariana's work is done, at least until tomorrow

anyone who's still awake is over by the fire
where the talk is all of China's rise, and the latest 
from the union

which they'd gladly die for if ever they were called to
but for now they're just turning and waving as she 
drives away