Night People

The dirt hung heavy in the air and invaded my nose and lungs and years of buildup made it hard to breathe and see and think. My hands grew rough and brown each time I knelt to touch the earth and my fingernails peeled back when grains of sand buried themselves deep underneath, prying and separating the flesh from the nail. The heat from the stove burned my back and the stove kept eating firewood so I had to move my chair and on the first try it burned my hand. The ladies laughed, baring gums with a smattering of teeth, and spat into empty pop cans, saliva stringy slipping between lips and collecting. I had been awake for a thousand hours and my eyelids grew heavy and my eyes glazed over and I listened to the singing and felt weary but kept rising and kneeling and digging and counting. When we finally left, frost covered the mud and puddles were iced over and the stars shone with the moon, and our pockets were heavy and our minds were far from our homes.