Dead cedars, yellow pine
roll off the mountain
on trucks, great rounds felled

after drought
down a narrow road
to be ground

into toothpicks, I’m told.
Under the leaky flume
on the Middle Fork,

a Kenworth edged
the ’57 Ford wagon full
of kids and groceries

to a stop, red bark
dripping, hanging like hair—
we held our breath.

Breaking black silence,
a diesel rumbles upcanyon
at four, piggyback, phallic

trailer tongue angled up,
pointing to Eshom
as headlights pass,

to remove the last
to Ghost Dances past.


3 responses to “LOGGING TRUCKS

  1. Nice poem. There is something about this logging truck poem that stirs the past, Snyder’s log truck poems do the same. Now I will have an ” Ear Worm” for the rest of the day… the pop and rattle sound of Jake Brakes echoing across a canyon and down the Central Camp Road.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Memories of the past rush to mind. I lost one of my best friends when a logging truck lost it’s load on a curve and landed on my friends car, killing all aboard.


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