Pruning Trees It’s six in the morning when we pull into the tree field. The sun is rising and the fog is lifting, leaving the trees white with dew. There’s about twenty of us. The riders, who’ve been sleeping the whole way, rub their eyes and wonder what’s going on and the drivers lay their heads back hoping for rain or a five second nap. It’s not long before Junior, the boss steps out of his Ford diesel four- by- four and yells, “Well let’s get ‘um.” (The trees, he means.) Junior is the owner of the trees, about thirty years old. We all get along with him because he’s a nice guy and we all do what he says because his arms are as big as our heads. So we sharpen our knives and pick a row of