Diggit
Hero Member
- #1
Thread Owner
A coinshooter's poem
Early morning,
Bird's cry
Dew bakes off the grass.
Fresh batteries,
dried mud
on the coil.
Ground balance,
slow swing,
Laser level you guide the disc.
Steady hum calms the nerves,
Blocks out chaos.
This is heaven.
Quiet squeak appears,
pulse quickens.
Reswing, again and again,
Seeking out the prize.
Crisscross, homing in,
Pinpoint the find.
Invisible spot in the grass,
Detector placed at your side.
Slicing the plug,
Pull back the earth.
The black soil appears.
Small hunter in your hand,
Check against the steel of your digger.
Satisfying beep.
Functioning perfectly.
Probe the soil,
the earthy smell,
Rising to meet you.
At last it beeps,
glove off, more probing,
seeking out the precious silver.
Then it breaks,
Seeing the light,
Glimmering in the sun.
The prize is yours.
-By Diggit
Early morning,
Bird's cry
Dew bakes off the grass.
Fresh batteries,
dried mud
on the coil.
Ground balance,
slow swing,
Laser level you guide the disc.
Steady hum calms the nerves,
Blocks out chaos.
This is heaven.
Quiet squeak appears,
pulse quickens.
Reswing, again and again,
Seeking out the prize.
Crisscross, homing in,
Pinpoint the find.
Invisible spot in the grass,
Detector placed at your side.
Slicing the plug,
Pull back the earth.
The black soil appears.
Small hunter in your hand,
Check against the steel of your digger.
Satisfying beep.
Functioning perfectly.
Probe the soil,
the earthy smell,
Rising to meet you.
At last it beeps,
glove off, more probing,
seeking out the precious silver.
Then it breaks,
Seeing the light,
Glimmering in the sun.
The prize is yours.
-By Diggit
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