No clank of iron on iron.
No bang of a dump truck’s dropped tailgate.
No tumble of four-foot lengths of wood to the ground.
No chorus of skidder or snowplow engines
severally humming or grinding alive
in the pre-dawn cold of late December––
All of this gone to Florida with the neighbors.
Blessed silence drifts down, and grateful
we walk the snowy ground, relieved of the constant
sound of what it means to make a living here in Maine.