A dozen stands of steaming pipe . . . two dozen . . . three . . . methodically we raise the pipe out of the hole. The sun drops behind thick clouds to the west. We work on in bright pools of artificial light. Four bodies move rhythmically, steadily, in concert. A full moon rises from behind Picacho Peak. We grow warm, then weary. Clouds obscure the moon. The derrick thrusts upward amid desert rock and vegetation; engines roar and fall silent in predictable intervals; the rig floor sways and creaks. A breeze intensifies to gusts. Fat drops of rain splatter the rig floor; rainsqualls shudder the derrick. The gathering ranks of pipe drone like the organ pipes they resemble. Taut cables whistle high notes.
[from Immortal for Quite Some Time]