From between his fingers, a plume of white smoke curls upwards, drawn away by the wind, carrying with

it the stale scent of dirt, grime, and sweat. He sits quietly, calmly smoking away on his cigarette, as if oblivious to the rocky landscape around him. But his obliviousness is far from ignorance; rather, he has grown accustomed to the rough-hewn edges of the life of a miner. Behind him is a deep dark hole through which he descends daily, a hellhole as deep as it is dark, where falling rocks and gas explosions are nothing but occupational hazards to be faced day after day. His age is made clear by the scant white hairs that ring his face, an unexpected juxtaposition that is in sharp contrast to the tone of his face, made darker by the dust that fills the air and chokes his co-workers airways. His helmet is dented and powdered white with the remnants of crumbled rocks, bearing the scars from multiple closely-escaped cave-ins. His flashlight seems to stare warily like a Cyclops lone eye, scrutinizing and responding with a guarded solemnity. The mans wrinkled forehead betrays his inner thoughtfulness despite his characteristic silence and somberness. Though he knows full well the dangers of his job, he also knows that it is necessary in order for his family to survive. In the hopes that publicity will one day lift his home out of poverty, he stands stiffly still as his picture is taken.