Bronzed hands and neck.
Field workers at 5am. The sun
cuts sharp. Tractors crawl, knives
slice. Work hard breathing.
Sweat equals blood. No one speaks.
A cloudless sky. Baskets stacked
and leaning. Water passed around.
No breeze. Distant highway traffic.
Boots crossing rows. Busy hands.
Two shirts. Golden rich soil.
Geometric plant rows. Water
machines click off in the next field.
Children arrive on bikes. Grandparents
find a spot. Like an incoming tide.
A bell rings. Machinery goes cold.
A days wages released into tired
pockets. The walking drift out.
Trucks to the road, pregnant
with weight.
Roger Singer 