HANGING CRADLES

The babies

of the migrant workers

lie in cradles

cut from burlap sacks,

hung from

branches spread along

the field's edge.

They are out of

the sun's reach, which is

searching for them

like a one-eyed gringo,

who rises only for

the taste of tequila

and the smell

of young flesh.

Forty rows away

from their young,

generations of baked people

pull white balls

from green cups. Young

mothers begin a song

short enough to finish

before the hot air

steals their breath.

And a boy

with his father's face

guides a sagging burro

along the line

of tree cradles,

waving away low-flying crows.

The babies

of the migrant workers

lie still

and listen

to the song of work ?

the lyrics softly

push their cradles

once, and then again.

Ted Thomas, )r.

1.24.82