Gas Patch Dawn
The shadows web their winter light
across sagebrush the size of men.
The mobile homes concede their deaths
one frostbitten panel at a time. A ballistic
wind beats their rooftop wounds of tin.
In the distance the white mountains
slither along the glow of the horizon.
A truck door barks shut.
An engine growls and chokes
on chunks of icy diesel
before fading down the gravel road,
unsatiated, to devour whole
the gas fields in one giant swallow.
By Aden Thomas
Aden Thomas grew up in the blue collar communities of central Wyoming. His work has appeared in The Kentucky Review, The Inflectionist Review, and Third Wednesday. He now lives north of Denver, Colorado.