Poem for The Black Hills

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.