In the wasteland, water is life, but life can be pretty muddy. Boone “Dusty” Maddox delivers another percussive, instructional anthem with “The Mountain’s Sieve.” Over a slow, steady drip-drop rhythm—created by hitting a hollowed-out log—Boone explains the physics of the bio-sand filter.
The Charcoal Heart
The song is a rhythmic blueprint for a gravity-fed water filter. Boone breaks down the layering process with the precision of a master craftsman: cobbles on the bottom, river-shingle, crushed hickory charcoal, and fine sand on top. He highlights the “charcoal heart” as the secret to the trick—the chemical scrub that “holds the poison back” when the river is running thick with flood-silt and valley mud.
It’s a song about patience as much as it is about plumbing. As Boone says, “Give it the time that a man needs to grow.” You can’t rush the silver; you have to let the “muck” work its way through the layers until it comes out “clear as a Sunday.”
A Cool Bit of Mercy
There is something deeply spiritual in the way Boone describes the result. After the “bad” is cleaned out, the water becomes a “cool bit of mercy on a dusty-red face.” In Sector 8, where the creeks can turn yellow with mountain runoff, knowing how to build a sieve is the difference between health and “gut-rot.”
By the time the final note fades out, accompanied by the actual sound of water dripping into a copper cup, you’ll feel like you’ve just learned a secret that could save your life.
THE MOUNTAIN’S SIEVE
by: Boone “Dusty” Maddox
The creek ran yellow with the valley’s mud,
Thick with the silt of a mountain flood.
I looked at my reflection in a bucket of brown,
And saw a thirsty man with a heavy-set frown.
So I found me a tin with a rusted-out lip,
And started buildin’ a way for the water to drip.
Stack it in layers, build it up tall,
Wait for the silver to start for to fall.
From the muck at the top to the clear down below,
Give it the time that a man needs to grow.
I punched some holes in the bottom-side skin,
And that’s where the “cleansin'” was gonna begin.
First came the cobbles, big as a fist,
To keep the drain open through the grit and the mist.
Then the river-shingle, small and round,
To catch the heavy pieces travelin’ in the ground.
I burned me some hickory ’til the coals were black,
Crushed ’em to a powder to hold the poison back.
That charcoal heart is the secret to the trick,
It cleans out the “bad” when the river is thick.
I topped it with sand, sifted fine as a ghost,
To catch the muddy shadow like a sturdy gate-post.
Stack it in layers, build it up tall,
Wait for the silver to start for to fall.
From the muck at the top to the clear down below,
Give it the time that a man needs to grow.
One layer for the stone.
One layer for the grit.
One layer for the coal…
And a whole lot of waitin’ for it.
I poured in the creek and I watched it go deep,
Sinkin’ through the layers while the world was asleep.
A slow, steady drip in the copper-cup base,
Like a cool bit of mercy on a dusty-red face.
It ain’t a fast way, but it’s the way that is true,
Turnin’ the river into somethin’ brand new.
Clear as a Sunday…
Pure as the light.