He gazed at oak leaves
whose serrations recalled,
As a young child
in Humboldt County,
He’d seen, in the back of
a logger’s pickup,
A beat-up crosscut saw,
rusty, splintered handles,
Unused for decades,
but still displayed,
A sign saying
he could if he had to,
That old ways persisted,
stubborn as ancient oaks.
Bluster & Absurdity 