Blackbirds Rising

the little boy lay between the stalls,
kicking his feet upward, his eyes closed,
his shirt quite dirty
in front, the drippings
from peaches patterned after
a Van Gogh, with the blackbirds
rising.

leaning against the tomato cart,
I snapped one, two
photos, focusing on the wet mouth, the tears
forming in blue eyes.

the mother yanked his arm and stood him
up, one suspender from her bib
overalls slipping down her shoulder.

she paused, talked in his ear,
the boy’s lips firm against the message,
his little hand making a fist again
and again, resisting the advice like some
boxer ready to deliver
a knock-out blow.