after Donald Hall


Deep in a ravine in western Oregon
the old Caterpillar lodges between two firs
thick as ancient pillars. In nineteen eighty-eight
the solitary logger – a one-man crew –
steered it here, muscles clenched for the descent.
In the cab, the yellow hardhat tilts forward over the face
as if the young man were sleeping, only the teeth
and brown bone of his jaw exposed, his heavy gray
shirt and black pants deflated. The arms hang,
fingers like dried reeds pointing to the earth.

Or say the rid...