Harvest Season

Poetry

Soft grey clouds frame
the flat green milpa.
Jagged rocks sprout
atop each other from blood
red dirt forming a solid
stone fence.

A solitary figure stoops
pulling earnings from Earth.
Corn stalks wave hi to him.

Scarecrow’s flannel: thin.
We can’t spare the good ones.

He doesn’t complain.

El campesino moves
slowly, revealing his spirituality
to the dirt, praying with potato bugs
and centipedes.
Niños de la tierra.

“Gracias a Dios,” he says
moving toward the rock fence.
He shifts stones to go home,
replacing his broken path of red
rocks and adobe pieces
before leaving.

The fence will be there
one more day.

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