Eighty tons of rock

                                                                                                   
                                       
                                                                                                   
                                       
                                                                                                   
                                       
                                                                                                   
                                       
                                                                     
         

Eighty Tons of Rock

Dayspring light rouses me.
Rising, bones aching, joints stiff, muscles sore.
Thinking this will be the last day.
Eighty tons of rock laid out.
Coffee, black and bitter, mixed with cream, white and sweet,
Removes the sleep from my ears.
I can hear the music in the trees and susurrus of the fauna.
A cold shower, no need to shave.
Work shirt and pants, boots and a hat.
A hard roll with soft butter to keep me till noon
Looking to the sky, no rainclouds in sight.
The pile of rock looks challenging.
Smaller piles dot the lot, and wait to be leveled.
Spade and shovel, rake and hoe at the ready for the work.
Stabbing the shovel into the pile, crunching, and swooshing the rocks give way.
Heave a shovelful into the wheelbarrow, again and again, and again.
Wheel the barrow to a naked spot, dump the rock, cover the nakedness.
Repeating the process over and over, the pile grows smaller and smaller.
Coolness of the morning gone, I sweat, beads running from my brow, my shirt soaked.
Rock dust caking on my bare arms and face, hands bister from repetitive motion.
Stopping for a glass of lemonade, it washes the dust down my throat.
The pile is almost gone now, just the smaller ones scattered about.
Dumping the last load a barrow handle snaps, grateful it waited till now.
Small piles of rock dotting the lot looking like an anthills.
Each to be raked, leveled, and spread, cover all the naked spots.
Decide to work through lunch to finish the job
Almost done with eighty tons of rock, spread flat and even.
Rake and hoe, push and level rock, over dark brown earth.
Rake and hoe, rake and hoe, one pile after another and another.
Stopping to have some more lemonade, looking around, the piles are gone.
Eighty tons of rock lie flat, even, covering the lot, making it look clean and new.
I rest on my rake feeling, prideful in the accomplished, a blanket for Gaia.
The day is dimming and the gloaming will be upon the land shortly
A fire for is needed.
A birched that was felled and bucked and quartered last year will serve well now.
The wood, seasoned and dry, burns fragrant and bright and readies itself for cooking.
A hearty meal to end a good day.
Plopped in a chair, back and bones aching, muscles sore, joints stiff.
I light a cigar and pour two fingers of peach whiskey.
The first stars poke their way through the evening sky.
I smile and think to myself , eighty tons of rock I spread.
Eighty tons of rock.
          GF Frontera 2024