Black Union teamsters at
             rest against a yellow tent

Though they lie in the sun,
the light does not glance from
buckle or button, nor from
their shadowy faces or hands
(one faint highlight, like a twist
of cotton, on the bill of a cap).
Instead, the sun seems to soak
into their sweaty clothes
and their skin, making them
even more black than they were.
On the bright side of their tent
they look like a ragged hole,
they look like oily cannon rags
or a heap of old harness.
Beyond, mules graze on light,
and canvas-topped wagons
loom bright as sails, so airy
you would think they were
empty. Perhaps they are,
perhaps these five black men
have taken on all of the load,
the powder kegs, the bags
of potatoes, the canisters of lead,
so dark, so heavy is their sleep
(with one man left awake
to smoke his pipe and watch).