I found a flock of cranes
clustered in a gravel lot;
they were silent, still,
their grays and reds paint
matte the landscape
behind the jaundice
yellow of the workers
lounging out their lunch;

one fellow, never caught
his name, waved me over
like I’d seen mafia dons
do on TV;
       Where you boys headed?
His voice, rumbles of the diesel
engine of his machinery starting
on icy mornings;
       Hell, it doesn’t matter.
              You’ll be busy all the same.
Lunch on me today, son.

two bills he pushed into my hands,
crumpled and pocket damp,
and slapped my *** in dismissal;
the laughter of the men
shuddered off the steel shells
of those mechanical birds