The Summer of Mud

There was a summer of working concrete. Eastern Idaho. Ashton, St. Anthony,  Ririe, Idaho Falls. Nearly every day of those three months ended watching topsoil and water mix, swirl down the drain. Town to town, neighborhood to neighborhood, didn't matter where, work was the same. The heat hanging in the air was the same. Shovelfuls of dirt never getting lighter. Stink of form oil and sweat, fresh washed clothes never quite clean. It was only one summer. Long. Brutal. But more than any other job, I felt I had earned my keep each week.