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

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