The snow arrived at 11:11, superstitious numbers for the Cass Lake loggers:
four parallel pines announcing the banking storm.
Men had been promised a day and a half of women and whiskey,
and drug themselves from the forest, footfalls heavy as felled fir.
These thirsty birlers—Norwegians, French Canadians, Irishmen—carried
upon their shoulders broad axes and serrated saws,
but buried deep within their woolens they bore darker truckage:
national pride and prejudice as sharp as crushed juniper.