Postures

The sun, low and lean,
cuts across the country road.

In my mirror,
a young rooster poses, slouched
in the center of his impeccably
clean silver car,
barks words I'll never hear
or miss into his phone,
arm bent, hand cocked.

Out my window,
a dull yellow bus in the weeds
has dispersed sun-brown men
now bent at the waist,
bodies speaking of labor,
stories in their frames,
hands in the ground,
in the damp earth.