Her dreams were buried deep, below her proud standing. Here she was, in the high of day’s noon. Sweat fell like raindrops from a broken gutter. The desert dust keeping her eyes dry and clean. A space-aged shovel clanked on a boulder. It fell with the backpack from home. Tools spilled loose from green army denim. She unwrapped a journal zipped safely in plastic. Pushing rubber buttons on the trusty Magellan, “beep, beep” came the assurance rarely required. This is where history would merge with the present. Knee-pads inched their way over giant boots with effort. She had learned long ago the little things made the difference. She found the right spot in this dry dusty nowhere. Raising the shovel high like some temple queen, she plunged her dagger deep into the earth. Bleeding rubble came spewing as she stabbed at her victim. She grunted in rhythm as the rocks crumbled cries of surrender. Hours passed gently. Her water was mental as she drank from the thought. Clank was the sound that would quench these lips open. She’d stop on the moment and bask in its time. By sunset she’d reach it, and pull loose her bounty. The dusty handle would squeak joyfully from attention. At that moment, she’d cross her legs and wipe her brow. She’d be sure and cherish the big reveal. She’d brush clean the container like a rescued box turtle. Inside, in the dark, waiting for the light. Her secret would shine again.
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