Bristol Bay: and Other Poems

Yesterday

78 Yesterday for Tim The last log truck rolled down from the blue hills Empty as the driver’s pocket, chokers rattling, Bed shifting, booms folded down and chained. The driver parked next to the tavern. Walked Inside, looked around at the crowd, probably Enjoyed, as I did, the way the wood stove took The cold from his face. Set down next to me. I didn’t say anything though I knew the look. Out of work, out of money, out of luck. I bought A round and we toasted better days. He said—“they’re all gone, every damn one of them. Even though I hauled my share of them I never saw it coming. Not an old tree left on private Land and damn few on public. Must be how Indians felt when the last buffalo was skinned. Nothing left but to crawl off and die.” “I don’t think so. It’s different. Indians Didn’t kill the buffalo. The white man did and they Didn’t do it for food but to take away the evidence of god. You guys did this to yourself and I don’t mean To put a fine point on it but you were mostly Kept from the secret that the trees You couldn’t see were no longer anywhere to see.” He sipped his beer and didn’t take offense. Said—“yeah—you’re right. Looking back At all those landings in the early light It seems those trees weren’t real— 79 Were dreams—dreams we had for ourselves And for our families, hell, for our country. And we cut them down. Loaded them on trucks, hauled them To mills or ports where they were Sold down river to a guy with clean hand. I wonder if you can undream them. Undream Those houses back to the mills, back to the trucks, Back to the saws until the forests jump Into the air again—don’t suppose you could do A thing like that and make it true.” But then what are dreams for if not to Fill the everyday body with the hope that Something truly miraculous flourishes Beyond our war against tomorrow. ...