The moon, as if a silver pearl, fading into a dawning sky, father, oldest son, of lumberjack tradition, work broadened hands, ginger hair and beards, waking quickly to coffee, pancakes, sausage, then, into labor battered large pickup trucks, on a dirt road to the timberland, one hesitates, younger sister, thanks their wife and mother for the chow, then runs for her waiting older brother's truck, nineteen, long strawberry blonde braids, a spitting image of her mother's youthful days, petite, fair, and strong, in a lavender plaid work shirt, jeans and workboots, a proud Northwest American lumberjill.