harvesting pennies

June again. Two days of steam and steel. The Unimog sits behind plastic orange fencing, lifting whole logs. A tree goes in, planks come out. Men—mostly men—watch. Inside, three sit listening to an Enya tape that lives in the truck. Fingers slip between the grubby seats, searching blind—grime, melted chocolate, shrivelled orange peels. Using an old zip lock bag, reaching deep, finding more and more, until the bag has weight. Then, off to make the transaction, grimy fingers trading their harvest for a spinning sky, two minutes of whirling, weightless joy.