On the Move by Jerry D. Mathes II When hiking up a steep mountain or over a long trail of broken ground, I like to hum old marching songs. Momma, Momma can’t you see what the Forest Service done to me . I raise and lower each foot in cadence swaying my arms gripping a fire tool: a pulaski, a shovel, a combi, a McCleod or the power saw slung over the shoulder, smelling of slashed timber, brush and grass like a wine aged in a cask of hardwood still nuanced with mixed gas and bar oil that keeps the chain unbound, humming in the friction of heat and steel. theMeadow 71
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