Gold-diggers laughing at their shaking pan, sifting sand from yellowish nuggets of hope. Gold-diggers with the slippery fingers and the sweaty crevices, keeping secrets of speculative spots and digging holes. Gold digging old men, with a long shot strategy to compensate for their histories of lethargy. To compensate for their social rejection. To bury struggle once and for all under a mountain of quick wealth. Old unshaven men still angry at their drunken fathers shaking their wishing pans, gazing magically with their omniscient eyes. Today the sun is out and they attend to every sparkle. Scrap the gasps. Shrug the shoulders. Toss the sand. Refill the shaking-pan. Refill the hope chamber. There goes that damn woodpecker again, pounding away at his tree.