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Poem

They bore the winds of time
as they rose from arid lands.
They sun poked past one peak
while my work crew waited
to move to another place on the highway,
and we knew the day would fade.
We knew
highways must always be mended
and the same with our lives.
We spoke in hushed voices
among these hills
made when the earth shifted.
Somewhere beyond rested
a blanket of stars.
We let traffic pass
and two of us held stop/slow signs
and they would stand at the ends
of the work zone.
Along the highway was a casino
and a bar. If we listened closely
we could hear a breeze tell a story
of the old west. Some patrons
gambled their fortunes every day
and they lived in shadows
of pioneers who gave their lives
for this land.
Every time something was lost
it would be time to start again.
One man I stopped said
that it rarely rained but when it did
it stormed.
To this day I envision him
when his house would shake to the sound of thunder
nestled under a deep cover of darkness.
It was a way of life to him.

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