How vivid the memory is of those trucks "grumping and rumbling" in the night.
I don't recall exactly when it was, but I remember being bedded down for the night in a motel at Terre Haute. Then I heard them. It sounded like a parade of trucks, although there weren't nearly that many ... and there wasn't exactly a steady stream of them.
I recall getting up to take a look. There was a single, huge dump truck grinding past on the highway. I don't recall which highway, but It seems to me that it was a north-south route.
I went back to bed.
The trucks kept rolling. It wasn't a loud noise, but it seemed persistent ... and it seemed that there was just enough of a grade in the road, right beside the motel, that their grumbling ... all of them ... increased right there as they shifted to a lower gear and went on climbing the hill.
I got back up ... jotted down my impressions ... and went back to bed. And really slept then. Oh, did I ever!
The poem, which later became part of my first published collection:
grump and rumble
outside my room,
loads of quiet
down the highway,
letting it spill
in the darkness,
come rolling back,
like surf crashing
on my pillow.
(originally published in Chance of Rain, issued by Finishing Line Press, 2003)
Today's word: crashing