The workmans blues.

As dawn breaks over the rolling hills of Wyoming, the frost glitters in the sagebrush like the twinkling of a million million stars. This beat up old dump truck bounces along down the blacktop, weaving its way through the bluff walled canyon. All the while the river for which it's named sings to me a song of half meant promises of a chance for relaxation.

As we roll past the dam and out through the canyons mouth, the vast, high desert scrub of the plains tells outright lies to the eye, for how far yet there is to go. And while my side was clear and bright, imposing its will on my sight, this side is dark, the clouds hide all the light.

Across river and dell I wearily travail, farms and ranches whip by with little notice. There's a pillar of sandstone that's stands so proud. A monument of strength that marks the division of land for a people who once knew no bounds.

Up to the job site I finally arrive, and nothing of beauty can I catch with my eye. There's trash in the fields where the livestock graze, and dead dog carcasses in the ditch where the kids play. This place is depressing, there's no joy to be found, and until sweet Friday, to this place am I bound.

And that's what happens when you get bored driving my dump truck lol