Dunes over Danvar

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His daddy always told him that during any kind of rush, the real coin wasn’t in the doing of a thing—at least not for most people—but in providing the supply and support for the doers.

“When a rush comes, only ten percent make any real coin,” his daddy always said. “It’s a loser’s game, boy. Don’t matter what kind of rush it is—gold, oil, salvage from the old times,” he’d say. “People die to pull up ancient panties from a quarter mile down, boy, and only ten percent or less get rich. Forty percent will lose a bunch of coin—or worse. The bottom fifty percent will get their lives took away. That’s in any rush. Any rush at all. Dyin’ ain’t to be taken lightly, boy. Dyin’ for coin is like drownin’ yourself ’cause you’re thirsty.”

The Poet’s daddy was dead now these twenty years, and he himself was pushing on into his sixties. But his daddy’s words always informed him, had always been in his ear, ever since he was a boy learning to tinker and fix dive suits.

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