Raising the roof at 7:00 am Sunday morning

a large truck wandered the street, a
small car behind stuffed with five Mexicans
that cold Sunday morning, the sun barely
awake; I was the only one on the street
until they poured out, three from the
truck, the five from the car, scampering
up quickly erected ladders, buckets
and shovels aloft, their voices carrying
over the still air as birds chattering
at the feeder, their breath hanging
as frost in the air.