Write about: the dig.
Construction on the new house continues. They're working on the deck on the outside and the flooring on the inside. And still doing lots of digging, which invited today's prompt.
The smoke was again slightly better today. I can now see the outline of the hills to the west of town from our front porch. The moon this evening was very red, but at least it was visible.
Hoping for continued improvement tomorrow as I harvest for Saturdays farmers market.
During the day the dig site is a buzzing hive of activity. Machines rumbling this way and that, men talking and yelling... mostly yelling actually, now that I think about it. Hammering, scraping, scooping, unloading shards of rock.
A man could get a headache from all that chaos even though he was standing half a mile away, well beyond the towering fence that marked the perimeter of the construction zone.
Night, though, is a very different story. All the machinery is at rest, dark lumps casting strange shadows in the moonlight. The men have gone home to their wives or girlfriends or empty beds. Tools have been put aside and silence reigns supreme.
The hole itself is a yawning, toothless mouth of darkness. To stand at its edge and look down is to stare into the abyss. A man could think of jumping and falling into forever, never landing, never stopping. Just an endless flight into... nothingness.
Night. That's when I like to visit the hole the best. I guess you could say that I don't have much choice in the matter. And, sure, you'd be right.
It's not like I'm allowed on site during the day...