The harsh heat pounds down. The light reflects against the sun baked earth and shimmering waves obscure the lines between unreal and reality. The shush of metal sliding into earth and the patter of dirt wars with pants and grunts. The medium build man wearing an undershirt stained with sweat and splotches that looks like crusted blood pauses in his exertion. He looks out across the desert and here and there can be seen the other holes dug in the earth. The man takes a long drink of water and soon the harsh sounds of metal and dirt again fills the morning air.
The desert wind almost snatches the muttered words of the man, “Fucking Michael, I can’t believe he just up and left without a word.”
No one is there to hear but the coyotes and the crows feasting on treasures pulled from the loose earth.