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When the migrant workers drove up to our site,
we froze. Finished for the day,
we unrolled our tent, began staking the floor.
They whistled, clicked their tongues.
We had passed them earlier,
seen their figures bent over a field,
admired the perfect Idaho scene.
But up close those figures are lurking men
and we are not cyclists untethered and free.
Grabbing our bikes, we rode up the hill.
Down below our tent heaved then fell.
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