FIVE

The metal of the scrapyard had been glazed by a white frost layer; in the east the massive Utah sun had climbed only just above the sharp rock rim. The men stand near the rusted orange door smoking cigarettes and pulling long draws of yellow-green soda out of thin, yellow-green soda bottles. Some of the men have the hoods of their hooded sweatshirts up over their heads, their heads bowed like monks awaiting matins.

Work begins and the scrap gets sorted into like piles; loaders smoke and grind, vehicles crushed and the breaking of glass, the groan of old metal under force, and the smoke from the mens' cigarettes gives haze to the acrid air. Work ends later in the day, when the crew is tired, dirty, hands blackened and faces dusty. The wind dances eddies of dust in the afternoon warmth and the vast ocean of desert and the rock giants half-buried in the earth defy both innocence and experience.

Miguel stops Glenn on his way towards his truck.

"Glenn"

"Yes sir," he responds in a low tone.

Miguel hands Glenn an envelope, his pay from the previous week.

"How've you been doing Glenn?" he asks.

"Been doin' alright"

The men stand for a moment in recognition; eyes set on the other, distant though is the whine from the highway, washing in from the east a plague.