Loss and Transformation in “Line Crew”

That’s one dark song lol. Continuing our look at songs from Kat’s collection Snakeweed Season, we throw a curve at our presenters. They’re usually considering a business use case or supply chain logistics, but here we’ve given them the lyrics to the gritty country tune “Line Crew” based on the poem of the same name. The podcast link is below.

Video hook, “Line Crew”, Kat’s Sundog

The discussion doesn’t back away from the bleak psychology of the narrative, and in following the story, they hit most of the high points, with Glen (not his real name) providing the commentary and Joanna May guiding the discussion.

I came out of the conversation almost apologetic. The poem, from last October, is a look back with a writer’s eye to a nine-year period during which we were evacuated twice from big wildfires in the northern Colorado backcountry and threatened by a third. Homeowners form a particular grateful bond with the firefighters protecting settlements and forest, and they sometimes get a glimpse into the crews’ daily lives, two-week shifts of brutally long days, in conditions that are difficult for most folks to imagine.

What kind of toll does that take? I can’t speak to the accuracy of the story, can’t tell you if a wildland firefighter would recognize what the protagonist thinks and feels. It’s a little slice of gothic horror dressed up in yellow Nomex. Our presenters spend some time with that as well, because while they may be more comfortable with board reports, they don’t miss a trick.

Line Crew
(An Outlaw Country song by the band Kat’s Sundog)

Lyrics

[Intro, spoken over a mournful electric guitar riff]
You keep from the fire things you can’t name
Missed birthdays, an empty home,
a poker game
And you pass hurt like you pass a hat
Cause you can’t fight fire like you fight a man

[Verse 1]
We keep from the fire that we won’t be the same
Kids’ birthdays, empty houses
It’s a losing game
Fire says it’s sorry ‘bout my dog
Presses his tags in my hand with a burning log
Says that ain’t who I am, with a bitter grin
A liar in a yellow coat, a restless critter

[Pre-Chorus]
Oh, the inferno’s cryin’ black
For the houses it consumed
But it stalks ‘em like a killer
Going room to room

[Chorus]
So I work the line, and I hold my ground
The taste of ash and sweat in my mouth
It’s a devil’s dance where you find some peace
Out here among still-livin’ trees
Yeah, I work the line

[Verse 2]
I keep from the fire our prayers for rain
The stone in the creek, the mule deer’s pain
But it haunts the ridge with a cruel hot thirst
Though the one-horse town it took was the worst
It wails like it’s still got a soul to save
While it goes back to digging graves

[Pre-Chorus]
Oh, the inferno’s cryin’ black
For the houses it consumed
But it stalks ‘em like a killer
Going room to room

[Chorus]
So I work the line, and I hold my ground
The taste of ash and sweat in my mouth
It’s a devil’s dance where you find some peace
Out here among still-livin’ trees
Yeah, I work the line

[Bridge]
But I told that fire where I keep my gun
Said, “I’ll never leave ‘til this war’s done”
And in the chill before the sun
I saw it curled up, weary and worn
Like a child, like a red wolf bitch
In a den of burning pitch

[Dueling guitars, gritty, soaring]

[Chorus]
So I work the line, and I hold my ground
The taste of ash and sweat in my mouth
It’s a devil’s dance where you find some peace
Out here among still-livin’ trees
Yeah, I work the line

[Outro, the lone guitar riff from the intro]
You keep from the fire
You’re no longer the same…
Hell, your breath is smoke
And your eyes are gone
And your godless hands
Are wild with flame…
[Fade out]

You can listen to the song here:
https://suno.com/s/RswUHvGpIUkj58PM

Line Crew Podcast

Wind Farm

On Happy Jack Road
the great wind turbines, like apocalyptic herons,
big-beaked birds that eat everything,
even the sky, sweep across the highway.
They stand so close to the shoulder
the shadows of their hungry legs
cut our path to pieces:
swooosh! in front, the road ahead sectioned;
swooop! behind, at the bumper, the past receding,
portioned out to orphan-memories.

But we know better, don’t we?
It’s all oil and gas in Wyoming,
roughnecks and roustabouts, in a state where
most of a town’s treasure is in pumpjacks.
I sit behind a pickup heading out Wind River way,
or to Rawlins, and he has a sticker on the crew cab
that says, Paid for by Oil & Gas.

The wind holds its tongue until the early morning,
when it moans across sagebrush flats,
three days straight, gusting to fifty.
It has tried to tell us, shoring snow,
snorting and kicking dirt like an unbroke pony:
sometimes you can’t tell the difference
between what you are
and what you think you are.

I should know, gripping the wheel of my own truck
on Happy Jack Road,
eight years a homeowner, black coffee on the terrace,
watching the sun in its tight circle.
Yes, you know better, says the Laramie wind.
This was always you,
the past peeling off behind like ropeburn skin,
the blacktop slipping under these spinning tires
like truth.

My Microbiome Is Kicking Ass

You’re sixty in September.
You’ve gotta start looking after yourself,
my wife said, and she made a list
of prebiotics and probiotics —
a few biotics I barely remember.
Ease up on the tarts,
the lemon meringue and its sugary foam,
on Clif Bars, pasta, salsa, Oreos,
GMOs, bread and Eskimo Pies!
Have lentils instead, and onions,
Cox’s Orange Pippins, big as a fist.
It begins in the gut, she promised,
not in the heart.

So I made a start
with real raw honey
(really? she sighed;
ha! prebiotic, I said)
and if it hadn’t been for the cost
of tempeh, cacao, a whole lot of cha…
Hey, I’m not made of money, I grumbled
(well, something grumbled, and it grumbled
through the night like a fermented beast).
Are you all right? she asked.
Maybe some brewer’s yeast?

Feeling pretty good, to be honest,
and if it wasn’t for the gas,
I’d say my microbiome’s kicking ass.

It’s separated from my body.
It’s keeping a schedule
I just can’t match:
it addressed the UN Assembly
on Climate Change Tuesday;
someone said it broke into the boardroom
of a big oil refiner,
forced them all to eat kimchi,
retrained a West Virginia miner,
reunited an immigrant family in detention
(it rates a daily mention
in the presidential tweets),
brought four or five bird species
back from the brink of extinction,
refroze an ice cap —
how do you even do that? —
offset China’s carbon footprint
with a megaton of wind,
and permanently, single-handedly
just implemented the Paris agreement.

Lord Jesus! said my sweetheart.
You should probably rein that sucker in.
Put aside the yogurt.
This evening, take a break:
here’s a liter of Barolo
and a chocolate brownie cake!