Call me Yamhill

A wildfires thoughts.

As we meander down the road 22 souls in all, we travel into the night on a mission, but before the mission starts the location must be made. The trip it's self is made by hundreds of thousands of people a year, but our haste is not motivated by money or fright to be dropped but by the cargo we carry. The men, young, old, who have the ability and experience to wield our trade tools, the water carried in our tanks and the machines that propel our fragile body's into the upcoming fight.    
      The young man in the front seat, listening his headphones and his mind grips onto the trip that is starting, the work and the danger that will be met with shortly.  The people that he has taken arms with. Are they steady folk? Not shielding away from the heat and the smoke when all Sodem and Gomorra  comes upon our bodys, clad in light weight fire-proof linens.   He also does not hear anything besides the beat of his music mixed with a hint of turbo howl, but he feels the 50,000 pounds of steel and water being thrust down the highway. The vibrations of the gears, tires and 500 horsepower motor thrum, going up into his head, melding with the music and thoughts to bring great emotion.   To do his duty,  not for pay, nor for glory. But to help. Help the towns and family's being consumed by the foe.     And so, into battle this young man is led by the veteran soldiers of many conflicts, and if to his grave to the battle flows then as it may be, if towards home the victor he flys after the fight then the lords will be done.

posted by Yamhill @ 9:16 PM