Work

The boys stood on the edge of bank, proud of the work they had done. The twelve hours of hauling mud-caked tarp out of the canal had left them almost translucent. They became part of the land, a colour in the sky. The sun began to fall and the wind rose. Red sweater, flannel shirt. Black hat, woolen toque. They stood there for awhile longer. Alone on the quiet, lonely lake, their limbs aching and mouths parched, they thought about the long walk through the field to the car. It was time to go back home. Back to where artificial lights lit the sky and work never left you sore the next day.

Photo by Kristian Jordan

http://www.flickr.com/photos/dawntraitor/7151023313/in/photostream/lightbox/