Before dawn, before other crews pull up,
even my own; before a tailgate drops
and coiled cable, pipe and drills scrape the truck bed,
emerge and unpack themselves; before the apron
slung from the waist is weighted: fasteners, driver bits,
meter and tape; before conduit saddles obstacles, saws
wind up and roar; before a compressor kicks the drums of my ear,
I rub a cricked neck, look across the cove. A tanager whistle.
The soft swell of light. The sharp profile of a spruce on the ridge.