Faraway thunder, beyond the plank road; could be weather, could be war, moving east through slab town, toward the mining camp, and I am on my pinewood cot, quiet as a cloud, wanting not the one nor the other, knowing that the close-in and the far away are both mine to tend to, and to carry. It’s the land I live on, and that land belongs to the company; the weather and the war roil over us, settling its dust on the pinewood cot, and circumventing the dustless door of the hilltop house.
But, tend to it, I will. Walk with me out into the storm, to strike, or be struck, to not be the last brass pit check left up on the tally wall, and to not be the forgotten miners lost in the tunnels, while hauling a rich man's gold at the edge of the gilded age. Walk into the storm for just one day.
~ Michael Douglas Jones
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