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The forest was a cathedral of damp green when Jerry Crew first saw them, though he’d never call it that. He was a logger, not a poet—hands rough as the bark he stripped, eyes sharp for the next cut. Bluff Creek, California, October 1958, and the rain had softened the earth overnight, turning it to a canvas of mud and pine needles. He’d come early, boots crunching through the stillness, the kind of quiet that presses against your ribs. The bulldozer he drove waited like a patient beast, its blade dulled by yesterday’s work. But there, beside it, the ground told a story he hadn’t written.

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