The Window Washers
In a small troupe
high over the city
one whistling
another taking up the tune
In the green of their shirts
they are linked,
companionate,
easy in movement
With their black hair
their small liveliness
their Latin smiles
their few soft words
With their warm pails
and brushes on staffs
and rigorous wipers
the delightful men
in arabesque
make swift
circumference
glass to glass;
graceful,
arcing aloft
they sweep clear
the wide windows,
gesturing
toward sunlight
in the morning
of an older day
somewhere
in a village field
sowing, reaping,
reverencing
