Tomato Pickers

(some lines taken from Bishop, Lowell, and Ai)

The rooster jumps up on the windowsill
and spreads his red-gold wings.
The pickers rise, their sweat dawns before
sunrise breaks the night apart.
Black flies ascend from the dirt as dew evaporates,
a buzzing fog of itch
that makes the hours creep.
The day thickens, by noon
it's viscous like the pulpy insides
of ripe tomatoes.
Skilled hands, blistered by the harvest,
vanquish rows and rows and rows.

The red bird watches from the shade.
Eyes like pentacostal flames, he's pacing
indelible grooves in their backs,
keeping them bent to the cruel sun.
Stooped and straining until the bright fruit hangs
lurid in the sunset hour.
Until the rooster lets them know they're done,
mounting the sky with natural command -
you'd think him venerable.
They're sent home with creaking bodies
and a little less cash than they need.