From the bunkhouse,
a thin ribbon of light glows
upon the Animas Mountains
hours before sunrise—
men snoring inside.
Long ways from home
I can’t sleep and wait
to make coffee before
the others stir themselves
awake before leaving
for the airport in Tucson
where I leave my keys
in the basket,
pockets empty in Phoenix,
pickup parked in Fresno.
Looking back
I should have known
I had nothing in common
with people who play
with Mojave Greens
sunning themselves,
absorbing warmth
like long flat tires
swapping ends to strike
right after they inflate.
drycrikjournal 
sounds like places I’ve worked!
LikeLike