The Day Guy Montreaux Died, Part II
...A big log bounced from way up top,
and before Guy could react
It struck his square across the chest,
up rose a sickening crack.
We sprinted quickly to our friend,
who lay helpless in the snow,
he struggled to draw a ragged breath,
ribs crushed from the blow.
I bent low besides my friend,
saw the haze come to his eyes,
the last words that he said, in French:
“Please…don’t let me die…”
But there was nothing to be done,
the damage was far too vast,
so we gathered round, stayed with Guy,
and in a few minutes he passed.
We stood there in stunned silence
then up came a painful yell,
the teamster dropped down to his knees,
clearly blaming himself.
But he was not at fault for it,
and a horse cannot be blamed,
so we picked Guy up and headed back
amidst a drizzly, freezing rain.
Back at camp we hacked away
at the hard and frozen ground,
we dug a pit just big enough
and laid our poor friend down.
A sky-pilot came out with a bible,
and he spoke his holy words,
we buried Guy and set up a cross,
into it his name we burned.
There was no more logging that day,
most just tried to hold back tears,
the company had not lost a man
going on back thirteen years.
And I stayed up too late that night,
troubled, unable to sleep,
wondering if I should even bother to
ask the Lord my soul to keep.
But sorrow will not turn back time,
nor will angry, vengeful moods,
so I had a drink and passed right out,
it would do no good to brood.
And the next morning we ate breakfast,
told the bull-cook he’d done good,
then grabbed our axes, our crosscut saws,
and headed back into the woods.
Copyright © David Welch | Year Posted 2018