Williams County 5: revisited

 

 

Williams County 5 --
pheasant children waiting
all along the road

a river of fog
 across the coulee --
   prairie greets the dawn

twice it plies
the muddy's twisted banks --
Autumn Equinox

 

 

 

fawn

Leo rammed the Grader through all the gears, racing the fire to the county line. Just in time he cut a swath parallel the gravel track - the fire had jumped one road already. There was nothing to stop it between there and Williston, fifteen miles away. // It had rained only once that entire Summer, the day I hit the fawn on County 5, in a convoy, fiddling with my wiper blades. A bad omen. The Honduran crew finished him with a pen knife, his blood soaking into the infernal dust. That night, back at the Man Camp, they feasted on its haunches under a moon turned pink by the Earth's contents, broken to pieces and churned into the air.

the heat of mid day returns to the sky -
it lingers there well into the night

Day Watcher

the prairie
before it becomes Spring
` ` ` I become a Day Watcher, too








*the big man*

Williams County 5 Vignette

twice it plies
Little Muddy's twisting banks --
Autumn Equinox






mile markers
in every headlight --
convoy on the 13th night

alone with a mirror
trying on these cowboy hats --
Autumn sky








heat and drought,
weeks gone by and still no rain
grass as dry as tinder
an Angus calf all caught up
in a few bare strands of wire








  a river of fog
high above the coulee --
prairie greets the dawn

Williams County 5 -
pheasant children waiting
all along the road







black-tailed deer
waiting in the blowing dust,
 a last leaf falls
the only tree within
miles and miles

like the wind

They'd sent us to fetch fence and stakes to surround the twenty foot hole where the twelve inch pipe lay. A hundred and fifty pounds of pressurized gas within, we were preparing to tie-in from a far off well to the main line. Anything could happen. Asphyxiation from deadly hydrogen sulfide, or a stray spark to the odorless, tasteless gas in the line itself might cause instant immolation, assuming tons of clay and earth didn't bury you alive first.

You hear the bosses talk about taking a chewing out "like a man" from time to time. How do you reconcile that sudden realization of impending doom? With honor and dignity, or scream like a little girl as you piss your pants?

Josh was driving the one-ton dualie back to the oil derrick's pad. Traversing the dirt road across the prairie's mounds and hills, he began to pick up speed. This nineteen year old from Florida had more gumption than most, I'll testify to that, but with a few less brain cells at his disposal. Formerly the whipping boy of the roughneck crew, I had taken his place. This pleased him to no end.

As the truck gained speed it left the ground over the high spots, taking us airborne for precious seconds. I'd raise my head to see if anyone was coming the other way. No matter what, it would be too late if they were. I held tight to the hand grabs like I'd mounted a runaway steed. Josh just stared bug-eyed above his leering mug.

"We're doin' a hundred miles an hour!" he croaked.

With out checking the speedometer, I watched the telephone poles go by like sticks in a tornado. Then I laughed, loud and hearty, from deep within the gut.


a cock pheasant
flushed from high grass-
wind on the prairie