Their uplifted faces, rapt before Millet's masterpiece, their docent explains the economics behind the scene—how thoroughly the tiny men in the background would have harvested the piles of tares at the women's feet, how they would have bundled their gleanings. The little ones offer their teacher eager answers about what one does with blé, volunteering gateaux before pain quotidian. Yet this is Paris 2011—enough immigrant faces among them to know something about hunger, about gathering all that’s left after even meager harvests . . .
beneath the rose window