ROLLING TRUCKS

Rolling over desert sands

Steady there are dough-boy's hands.

Gliding past the silver sage

Caring naught for fame or wage;

Rolling trucks for Uncle Sam,

In his kit are bread and ham.

Slipping over moon-lit dunes

Humming low the old men's tunes.

Every moment plays the game,

Like an iron in a flame.

Rolling over desert sands,

Steady there are dough-boy's hands.

AT DUSK

A low blue cloud lies stretched beyond the trees,

All quiet so. The chant of birds uplifts,

And through the evening dusk a tremor sifts,

The chill of night creeps close with turning keys,

And darkness soothes each child. The daylight flees,

Though many voices lend their artful gifts,

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