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.