Four white heifers with sprawling hooves
         trundle the waggon.
   Its ill-roped crates heavy with fruit sway.
The chisel point of the goad, blue and white,
         glitters ahead,
   a flame to follow lance-high in a man’s hand
who does not shave. His linen trousers
         like him want washing.
   You can see his baked skin through his shirt.
He has no shoes and his hat has a hole in it.
         ‘Hu ! vaca ! Hu ! vaca !’
   he says staccato without raising his voice;
‘Adios caballero’ legato but
         in the same tone.
   Camelmen high on muzzled mounts
boots rattling against the panels
         of an empty
   packsaddle do not answer strangers.
Each with his train of seven or eight tied
         head to tail they
   pass silent but for the heavy bells
and plip of slobber dripping from
         muzzle to dust;
   save that on sand their soles squeak slightly.
Milkmaids, friendly girls between
         fourteen and twenty
   or younger, bolt upright on small
trotting donkeys that bray (they arch their
         tails a few inches
   from the root, stretch neck and jaw forward
to make the windpipe a trumpet)
         chatter. Jolted
   cans clatter. The girls’ smiles repeat
the black silk curve of the wimple
         under the chin.
   Their hats are absurd doll’s hat