Morning crew hits the hill

in a chorus of muscles and chains

playing encores and refrains

of dirty sweat

puffs of breath

swirls of smoke

and suspended sawdust

like someone shook the globe

until it splintered and mixed.

The leaves cradle rain

and the canyon cradles mist

and it all floats softly to the ground

ringing faintly like a concussion

rippling through the mind

trying not to let go of a dream.

I wonder where she is right now.

Spattered oil bubbles on the blade

and a half-sideways grin

slices easily into trunk, after trunk, after trunk

toppling mammoths

who stand tall with age old rings

and weathered scars

from days when hunters

wove in and out of twigs

like tight webs of sinew

holding this forest in place.