A Day in the Minoc Hills

Swung the pickaxe from dawn’s first light, each strike ringing true through the red rock of the Minoc hills. Twenty-eight good turns, and the earth yielded 62.7—enough to feel the weight of honest labor in my arms. Dust in my throat, sun on my back, but I’d not trade it. This miner’s life wears hard, but it feeds the soul like bread.