PEOPLE EARTH

I watch them from my living room window

The thermometer reads 96 degrees, in the shade

They work in teams, pulling orange cables from one hole to the next.

My eye catches one head of thick, black hair,

poking up through my lawn.

Surrounded by a mound of red, clay earth, with shovel in hand, he emerges from the depths of the South Carolina clay. 

They are the same hue of red, the earth and he.

They are as one, in the heat of the blistering sun

Exposed, thirsty, scorched, relentless in their work.

One goes in the hole, the next emerges with a length of orange cable in hand.

The next enters another portal, followed by the next, it goes on, in an unnatural pattern, for as far as I can see.

Men of the earth, covered in clay, digging into the mother, on a hot, summer’s day.

Their sweat, mixed with the clay earth, has changed the color of their shirts from white to a blood stained red. 

He removes his sombrero, wipes his brow.

And awaits the arrival of his mid day meal.

A Suburban pulls up to a group of a dozen or so earth-painted, people.

Salutations are exchanged in Spanish, some hugs, a few kisses, and lots of smiling faces embrace the arrival of la comida.

Hot, homemade, food is distributed from coolers, by the hands of grateful, gracious, brave and courageous women. 

Back to the earth, for back breaking digging.

Into the mother to earn a living.

These are the earth people, the ones who know that the only way to reach the other side…is to go through.