In the photo,

sun-baked mud brick walls

empty windows, thatched roof

an empty pueblo

basks in the sun’s warmth.

I remember when people lived here,

sun-browned bodies

toiled, strained

hoes, shovels, lifted, fell,

rivulets running down

from furrowed brow,

fell to the soil.

These days,

such toil,

caricatured,

 is unequally shared.

Many sow,

few reap.

It is a simple matter.

The waves of maize,

 that churn and roil

miles on end

feed, and are fed by

the work

of the sweat soaked bodies.

I want to bring us

back to the place of respect

for the land,

each other,

and other creatures

labeled “lesser”

by arrogant, fruitless minds.

But in the photo,

furrows still compress

bodies still toil

fields still churn

sun still shines,

remains the same.