It is the sound

                   of olive trees.

         First one, then two, then the whole grove, they drop

                   their small, hard fruits,

         and their tears are gathered up,

         packed into baskets, then carried

         to the earth‑floored rooms.

                              Some go into jars.

         Some have their centers plucked out

         to be filled with slivered almonds or roasted

                   red peppers.  Some go to the press

                 where they're crushed.  From their pulp

                              oozes the purest gold,

                   to be strained into jars and sold.