Drizzle drips all day
from dark overcast.
The shrill reverberation of a chainsaw
biting through bark fills the forest.
Growing up, I witnessed
log trucks transporting giants.
A tree cut into three pieces
could make an entire load.
Now, a dozen skinny Doug Firs
head for the mill.
Back in the early eighties, mills shut down,
blaming environmentalists and the Spotted Owl.
That was the propaganda lumber companies wanted
everyone to believe.
Meanwhile, old machinery was hauled away—
replaced with computerized equipment.
When the mills reopened
half of the jobs were gone.
In the Blue Ox Bar, men still bicker
about shooting owls . . .
while shooting their mouths
and cheap whiskey.
