FIELD HANDS

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.

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