Lodged...since he was a tiny acorn...to the side of a mountain's scape.He stands far above the winding road; one crooked old oak, long dead and split, with limbs storm broke.

The logger fells it low; sawn to length, one billet veers downhill, bumps and smacks against his peers, crushing tinder under tow; with a slow motion juke, past the cord pile...

The stump bounds onto the main road. Cars and trucks rend their nerves of steel, as the billet commands their scold; to those drivers swerving and honking, he's just a stumbling block, but to the logger he is his partial load.