Brown-skinned roofers bearing
bundles,  

July skin glistens.
 

She lifts up straw hats.

Out for a walk, I chose Willamette Avenue for its shady, ancient maples that hang over the sidewalks, where I can move from tree to tree with only brief slices of sun. 

That day I chose to make a turn, take a different street back in the opposite direction, one with fewer trees. I was following a sound—a steady pounding, words of a song drifting between the houses.

Ahead, a porta-potty on a driveway’s edge, my first clue that hard work and a lengthy project were underway. I slowed my pace, walking closer to a construction truck and music I’d heard years ago on a bus in Mexico, curious.

Before I knew it, the prayer had already begun: Stay safe. Be careful. The sun beat down. Bundles rose from the truck to the roof, one pair of hands at a time. Stinging sweat rolled off their bare heads.

Then my eyes found the woman standing below them and one by one, she lifted straw hats into waiting hands.