They rise from the shoulder
Like stakes through the heart of the plain.
The tar and
sap slathered on for shelter against the heat
Heat up the surrounding air like a desert;
That sweltering air rushes into my lungs, charged with the smell of
Swamp and toolshed,
Axe and chainsaw,
Cherry oak and crude.
. . .
First step up the metal rung, and the earth simmers below.