'The gleaming lorry...'
The gleaming lorry sleeps in the dandelions, my brothers talk to each other softly outside before it's night.
Their words say stars or numbers, yell at a dog and then go on.
They've got flyaway feathers in their hair, lines of oil across their cheeks and foreheads.
When they come up again side by side the road's just wide enough for them, they don't say a word.
© Valérie Rouzeau translated by Susan Wicks