West Texas at dawn smells clean. Grit hasn’t flown into the air yet, kicked up by white oil field trucks and the loads they carry. Moisture from the slim blades of buffalo grass hasn’t evaporated into sunny skies. The aroma from mesquite and sage hasn’t had a chance to dry up, instead, the pre-morning world is bathed in its mingled arms. The dirt finally rises as countless men finish their coffee in dirty kitchens and head off to the offices and rigs that have risen up on the landscape like red mites after rain. There is little quietness anymore. The diameter of the cities have expanded to house the oil-businesses and the people that chased the jobs here. 18-Wheelers steadily stream by, lumbering and heavy, with the attitudes of golden retrievers. Getting their job done, hardworking. Pick-up trucks with all types of apparatuses and toolboxes decorating their beds, plow quickly around everyone else, anxious to get to their job sites. At mid-afternoon, the blue, blue sky rests against a flat horizon. Humans, miniature figurines, move lazily across it. The enormity of the land, the flatness in every direction, renders the largest of us small.