"Coffee," he said, when I asked what it was

It was harvest season near Jaramillo, and a coffee picker taking a break on the path waved me over, divided his rice and beans in half, and poured me a cup of coffee from a thermos. We talked about rain and prices. He had been picking since six and I had been out for an hour. He had a full sack and I had a camera. It was the humbling kind of lunch. The coffee was better than anything I had paid for. I asked what it was. He said, coffee. I said, yes.