Working Hands, Silent Stories

<< >> Sunrise burns the edge of the sky.

A rusted truck rolls by and sighs. Coffee's cold but you don't complain.

Steel in your hands, a sweat leaves a stain. And the whistle

blows, it cuts the air, you nod your head like you

don't care. Working your hands to the bone, aching, breaking,

but never alone. The fields that mill, the gravel, the stone.

Every crack in your palm tells a story unknown. << >> You talk to

the stars when the night gets deep. Dreams are cheaper when you can't