The soothing sky is blue as a robin’s egg,
Awakened by the rising of the shining sun.
The vast and rolling hills are touched and warmed
By the feathery fingers of the morning’s breath.
The air is saturated in the smell of fresh pine and morning dew,
Captivating one’s senses in the fragrant aroma.
Budding wildflowers dapple the terrain
Like the splashes of color on an artist’s canvas.
Patches of snow, scattered about like quartz crystals,
Slowly melt with the arrival of spring.
The serene silence is broken and melted like the ice
With glorious songs of birds, fresh from their night of rest.
Sunrise is nature’s waking call from the dark, dangerous night.
In the distance lie houses, nestled in the valley of the hills,
The living place of miners; the place to rest their aching feet
The hills tower down upon an old miner,
Who just stumbled out of his cabin
Shovel and pick in hand, he trudges through the mud
And the water from the melting snow.
He hikes up a hill to look for telluride minerals,
And slashes the soil and rock with his shovel.
Sparks alight and fly about.
Deep underground lies a drift, lit by lanterns
The miners drill, a charge is set.
The miners rush about the tunnel.
A loud BANG echoes through the labyrinth
As the miners set off sticks of dynamite.
Their hard work is synchronized
By the sound of iron hitting rock.
The rhythm accompanies the eternal heartbeat
Of the Earth’s living drum.
The dark paths are like a puzzle,
A game the miners play.
Some strike it rich, others find no pay.
A shout is heard in the tunnel,
Joy spreads throughout the men.
A glistening gold vein is exposed
Among the cold grey breccia.
Excited, some men rush out to spread the news.
Others stay by and start to mine the gold out.
Dust and smoke fill these chambers,
The miners wheeze and cough.
A miner’s job is tough work,
It is no walk through the park.
Evening starts to approach the town,
The miners walk home.
Their bodies ache, their sore legs shake,
As they rush to rest alone.
The birds quiet their songs.
The houses are illuminated by candles.
The day is done, the treasure won,
As the night starts to take over.
It is the crickets turn to sing out,
As dusk falls upon the landscape.
The moon starts to peek at the fields.
Its familiar glow casts down upon the mines.
In the moonlight, a small crystal twinkles,
Atop the precipice of the hill.
Deep beneath here the gold still lies,
Waiting to be found.