hunched over, a brown-skinned army,
picking, the field soon to be stripped of its bounty;
they will move to the next one, fast,
before the fruit falls to the ground
"los ninos, los viejos tambien"
the young, the old ones also help, though
they are slower and tote less a load
when the day is done, they build fires
for the frijoles, and to keep the night's spirits
at bay; they sleep in the shanties, the sheds
the master provides
the next day will be the same, though maybe
not as hot--maybe a rain will give them respite
from their labors
a gentle, short shower they pray,
for a storm might lay ruin to the crops, the treasure
they borrow only long enough
to basket and truck
not even a cloud visits the white sky
so the stooping, the loading drags on without relief
but from the north, a cool wind does blow
in it they hear a voice without cords vibrating,
yet one that speaks a language their hearts know well,
telling them their toil is to be brief, yet eternal: that winter
only whispers now, but soon commands all to rest