The Zongolica Farmer
He is surrounded by the old shadows,
cast in perfect relief by sun and Cross.
His figure – diminutive, dark-skinned –
eclipses this lost-hidden field.
It is here, at the tilt of a blade and universe,
the stakes are raised to mountains.
His fear watches, quietly,
as he collects dead cornstalks.
He knows it is time –
to shoo away wild turkeys,
to drop small things into the ground.
It is time to see through shadows.