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Half Shift
I follow you back into town after hours of tension in the canyon our last day. Your car is sick and shakes. I follow, watching the sky darken for twilight and a storm. Oncoming miners headed for swingshift in that same black shaft I worked five years ago fill the lane out of town with headlights. But look, see how the plumskin horizon streaks with yellow, green. I stop, you stop. We look east at the ripening light while at our backs the mountains darken and the storm comes down. Four hours later I drive home blind in rain while the miners half a mile below drop their doublejacks and drills and eat, deaf to all disturbances from the earth above.