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