The Bottom Line

Around my cabin they are dropping trees—
the tall white pines that sentinel these woods,
that crack and thud before being dragged
to the landing, and then bucked and loaded
onto a top-heavy pile of harsh truck.
Every so often the machines will stop
and I’ll hear the loggers gam and cuss:
“Ah, for Chris’-sakes, these have all got heart-rot.”
Pissed, probably, they went and bid so high
for what the mill owners will just laugh at.
The slash is piled high and the ground scarfed.
I dip my pen and turn back to my work.
Piecing together the best of our wood
none of us will make a killing today.

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