Each head accounted for and every paycheck cashed, we hunched near a campfire. My father struck a match and touched the tip of a Lucky Strike. The horses whinnied softly and stomped their hooves, the cattle bawled in the corral. My father leaned closer to the fire took one long dirt-flavored drag drew another square from the pack and wished one day he could watch it all burn.
This piece is to be published in 'Oregon East' this coming fall.