Good Work

There's loose papers scattered around our feet and
It's our harbinger to ignore,
'cause we don't need no dailies
to tell us what we already know.
We're lucky to have good work to do.

There is mud on our shoes,
cramped fingers to extend,
the hum of a thousand light switches all turned on at once.
Twilight fabric extends over the Cascades,
a slow wake up for us to travel on twisted black ribbons
because there's good work to do and we do it.