The season is upon us and in my fashion I like to share this from my time on the road. Background here; I was leaving Norfolk Nebraska to someplace in eastern Washington near Moses Lake. The load on the trailer was a center point irrigation system. It was Thanksgiving day and I would be away from home for the last time. Enjoy.
WHISPERINGS FROM THE ROAD
(A Teamsters Thanksgiving)
The harvest is done, all manner of crops in mill, silo, or bin, and the machines of husbandry sleep within their sheds awaiting a new beginning. Beasts of field, stable, and paddock consume the last vestiges of summer’s wealth. The lights of ranch, and home on either side blend in front of me, to become the lights of a city which shine and sparkle like the jewels of a ladies' necklace.
The sun peeks thorough a break on the horizon and the orange glow upon the clouds, like the embers of a fire, warms the soul. Night descends upon the prairie with the quiet stillness of a whisper. My tires, running in the groves of the pavement sing to me: “When do we sleep? When do we sleep? When .…?”
In the falling light I see grasses reaching as tall as a horse’s haunch. Two, four, six teams of reins in my grasp, to pull the freight wagon upon which I sit. Within are goods for the pioneers of this land, settlers who will turn this emptiness into a bounty heretofore unknown. And they leave their mark upon the land where hoof and wheel dig trenches across the reaches.
Yet do my tires sing to me: When do we sleep? When do we sleep?
I wake from my sleepless dream to horses now caged within steel and plastic. Five hundred steeds pull my load effortlessly down a ribbon of concrete. We glide along into the deepening night; my touch on the wheel as soft and gentle, as a silk scarf brushing the bare shoulders of my love. Within the homes I pass families now sit to their meal, and give praise to their God, thankful for the bounty of the soil.
And the night wind whispers my name across the echoes of time: “Star Dancer,” it calls, until at last, far to the west, I close my eyes to the darkness of the night.
Llance P.
c/w 1 Nov 2005
WHISPERINGS FROM THE ROAD
(A Teamsters Thanksgiving)
The harvest is done, all manner of crops in mill, silo, or bin, and the machines of husbandry sleep within their sheds awaiting a new beginning. Beasts of field, stable, and paddock consume the last vestiges of summer’s wealth. The lights of ranch, and home on either side blend in front of me, to become the lights of a city which shine and sparkle like the jewels of a ladies' necklace.
The sun peeks thorough a break on the horizon and the orange glow upon the clouds, like the embers of a fire, warms the soul. Night descends upon the prairie with the quiet stillness of a whisper. My tires, running in the groves of the pavement sing to me: “When do we sleep? When do we sleep? When .…?”
In the falling light I see grasses reaching as tall as a horse’s haunch. Two, four, six teams of reins in my grasp, to pull the freight wagon upon which I sit. Within are goods for the pioneers of this land, settlers who will turn this emptiness into a bounty heretofore unknown. And they leave their mark upon the land where hoof and wheel dig trenches across the reaches.
Yet do my tires sing to me: When do we sleep? When do we sleep?
I wake from my sleepless dream to horses now caged within steel and plastic. Five hundred steeds pull my load effortlessly down a ribbon of concrete. We glide along into the deepening night; my touch on the wheel as soft and gentle, as a silk scarf brushing the bare shoulders of my love. Within the homes I pass families now sit to their meal, and give praise to their God, thankful for the bounty of the soil.
And the night wind whispers my name across the echoes of time: “Star Dancer,” it calls, until at last, far to the west, I close my eyes to the darkness of the night.
Llance P.
c/w 1 Nov 2005
