Derelict logging machines at the end of their days.
No longer hauling, pushing, pulling and lifting.
The roar of Cummins, Cat, Detroit and Mack engines are silent now.
The paint fades and the rust grows.
Memories linger.
If the wind is just right
And you turn into it
You can hear the whistles and horns
Jake brakes and rattling chokers
And the voices of loggers
Who made a living on the side of a mountain
With steel and diesel
Who built legends amongst the cedars
with tin hats and spiked boots.
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