Mark Drumheller was the first lead I worked under. He came from
Mark and I frozen in a tree-stand by the lake eating ham sandwiches.
Mark turning his cap around backwards to sight down the pink mason’s line we’d pulled taut over the dirt.
Hiding under the deck from the afternoon sun, lying on cool stones.
Me toting 2x8’s through the snow to him. Him in the rafters cursing the snow and me.
The two of us at lunch on the half-framed dock. Me waiting to show him the great catfish that jumped, under the mist.
Mark stumbling on the dock, his tools clatter out onto the ice. Me creeping out to recover them. I was much lighter than him.
Mark and I shivering in cover-alls in the bed of my ford, eating soup from thermoses.
Dusted by snow, discussing cowboy movies.
