Passing over the freeway, traffic is loud, which means it is fast, which means rush hour has passed. Six lanes of hearses sweep autumn’s leaves to the shoulder and swale. I let the sounds of Death’s robes fade behind and climb a low hill up to Mock’s Crest. Not sure whether that’s someone’s name or the crest’s authenticity is in doubt. From the overlook, past and future flitches stack around a rail yard wide with tracks and wood. Mechanical elbows lift pallets of decked and canted lumber onto train cars, each car loaded with last week’s mill work, a trailing […]