Rocky ground

I hold the pick in two hands,

  Its weight heavy to bear.

    Scraping the dirt with the flat end

        I uncover the stone

          As large around as my kitchen table.

           I continue to scrape to find the edges.

Flipping the pick

  I glare are the pointed end.

    Readjusting my grip,

       The work gloves are wet with sweat,

          My hands shake with effort.

Raising the pick

  Up overhead

   Bringing it down on the stone

     With all my might.

       The clang of metal against rock

          All the vibrations ring through my arms.

The stone cracks a small bit

  Dust motes rise in the sun

    Sweat runs down my face

      And down my back.

       A small notch made

        On the table sized slab.

Again, I raise the pick.

  Again, I bring it down.

  The clang rings out.

    The rubble scatters.

     The sweat runs.

Once again.

  Once again.

    And again.

     The stone breaks.

I pick up the 4 jagged pieces, 

  Moving them to a large pile.

   Only to see

    A sea of rocks 

      Dotting the ground 

       All around me.

I hold the pick in both hands.



6 thoughts on “Rocky ground

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