Tower Afternoon

Wrote this about a week ago, but forgot it was in my pocket...and so I am posting it now! Yay.

I sit in the north tower watching... The only movement is the desultory swaying of the windsock at the airfield. Outside the tower, the Friday music is a quiet murmur at the edge of hearing. Inside, George Strait is telling me to "Write This Down".

Flat plains stretch in all directions to the feet of the mountains. They are close by to the east, but faint, ghostly outlines to the northwest. To the north east, three blocky shapes mark the final resting place of a platoon of Soviet BTRs (wheeled troop carriers). I don't know if they were the victims of a mujuhaddin attack, mechanical failure, or just abandoned in place. Who knows? I'm sure that there is a story in it, and until I find the truth, it will have to be my own.

Ah, a clarification, on Fridays here, it is...not a down day, exactly, but a relaxed day. We play music on the loudspeakers, we can wear whatever hats we want, and if off duty, we can wear civilian clothes. Its a day to break the monotony of this lonely desert outpost.

I realize, as I post this, that it is Friday again, and the music plays over the loudspeakers once more. Another week passed, another week closer to home.