[static crackles... a signal finds its frequency...]
"When I was a kid, a logging crew was huge.
Twenty men. Chainsaws. Trucks. Lunch pails.
A whole community in the woods."
"Now there's one machine that does it all.
Fells. Limbs. Bucks. Loads.
One operator in a glass cab.
Twenty men's work. One set of hands."
"The crew cabin sits empty now.
Hard hats on hooks. Coffee rings on the table.
Nobody comes for lunch anymore.
The silence is the loudest part."
"First the saw head. Then the grapple.
Then the mulcher. Then the decker.
Each attachment makes the next one cheaper.
Each tool makes the operator more powerful —
and more alone."
"Record your failures
as carefully as your successes.
The machine doesn't remember.
That's still your job."
"The logger commands a fleet from the ridge now.
Machines he can see but not touch.
Cameras where men used to stand.
The forest moves. He watches it move."
[...the signal fades. the forest remains.]