That early morning thaw
rings sharp on the faces
of the diggers
as their bootheels sink
softly into the cold
soil of the partially
frozen field.
Bright red hands and noses exposed
for hours signal the
duration of their day.

Their toil untamped by
frost or hail – these
laborers are creaky in
the joint and mouth.
Where once talk of
sport and leisure once
leapt, now only comes
talk of the weather.
Their limbs are barometers.

Maybe someday, could be tomorrow
their arduous work, that lonely work
will fall to another crew.
As life has a definite
conclusion, but no sturdy digger
ever leaves a job unfinished.
For if one departs, another will
surely take his place – such is
the nature of that business.

When the cold snaps
and the ground thaws out of
its muddy slumber, a new host
of men come out to labor.
Swinging tools like pendulums
and scarring the ground, they
lay down the framework for
our and their own departure.