Oil Trough

As I walk out the front door of my Oil Trough home, I am greeted by dense, warm air. My lungs are filled with the dust of this small farming town; the scents of dirt and manure from the fields sting my nostrils. Walking down the side of the road, I observe the multitude of small, decaying animals. Small pets usually don't last along these dangerous lanes. The road seems to always be alive with the thunderous roars of impatient vehicles raging past (although the speed limit is 35). The soft grass blankets the hard ground beneath me, like a cushion lain over metal springs. Hundreds of insects jump and fly around my feet as they fall. Birds chirp, thousands of them, thickening the air with a manifold of calls and whistles. I take a deep breath, the air barely touching my tongue as I inhale. This is Oil Trough, the perfect image of small town America.