A Morning at the Guatemalan Coffee Plantation

As dawn cracked over the volcanic highlands, I wandered into a mist-wrapped coffee farm where the air hummed with the earthy scent of wet volcanic soil and the sweet tang of blooming coffee flowers. Sunlight filtered through rows of glossy coffee bushes, casting diamonds on leaves heavy with dew—their edges curling like the rim of a traditional molinillo. A picker in a vibrant huipil moved between the rows, her nimble fingers plucking red cherries with the precision of a jeweler. "Each cherry must glow like a ruby in the morning light," she said, dropping them into a woven basket.
Near the processing shed, workers fed cherries into a pulping machine, their laughter mixing with the rhythmic slosh of water. I knelt to inhale the cherries’ grassy aroma, still warm from the morning’s harvest. A resplendent quetzal flitted past, its iridescent tail feathers catching the light, while a coati nosed through the underbrush, its ringed tail twitching at the flutter of a blue morpho butterfly. Somewhere in the distance, a marimba’s melody echoed, blending with the soft rustle of coffee leaves in the breeze.
The picker handed me a ripe cherry, its skin bursting with sweet juice when I bit into it. "Taste—this carries the volcano’s fire," she smiled, as sunlight spilled over the shed’s tin roof, catching the steam rising from drying racks. I watched a hummingbird hover above a coffee flower, its wings a blur of iridescence, and realized the morning’s magic lay in the delicate dance between land and bean.
By mid-morning, the plantation buzzed with activity: trucks arrived to transport cherries to the mill, a barista prepared samples of the day’s harvest, and schoolchildren on their way to class paused to help with the picking. I left with coffee stains on my hands, reminded that in Guatemala, mornings brew in the heart of volcanoes—where every cherry holds the mountain’s pulse, and 

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