[Be quiet....]

BE QUIET. The sun has set and the bulldozers are parked. No, we’re not using the bulldozers. Them officials are dozing now, and those bulldozers are too noisy. Not to mention too large. No, we’re going to wait til the last official leaves, and then we rake them remaining leaves like the gold glitter of autumn. Only difference is,--wait, did you hear that? The last engine of the last official. It’s like an official announcement, my friend, with each car engine’s retiring sound as a reminder that mining time is near. It’s our call, my friend, our official. The thing that regulates our lives here, the only regulation worth following. Mining used to be done freely til the bulls claimed it, and then it became something theiring. Even the church leader side with them, those bulls thinking they’re masters. But that doesn’t matter with us anymore, we come out at night, we get up at three a.m.�"and if by doing that we’re selling ourselves to the devil like the church leader says, well it’s only a matter of which horned creature to follow. �"But enough talk now, the engine is dying and the horn of real morning is getting louder. Just wait until that owner reaches that field of grass and we’re clear. Walking around like zombies in the morning, looking like absolute lazy freeloaders to the public, who cares. It’s this cemented road’s fault we can only leave here but never stay. We work tirelessly at night, way more than those territorial carabaos. But enough talk now, enough talk. The last among them is gone, and now we’re in the clearing. Get your rucksack ready, my friend. Time is gold.

Author's Note

An old thing from a collection of works involving word play.
Now re-grouped into another collection on WritersCafe (On Cliché and Blasé).