Pulp Fiction or Poplar Mechanics?

Interstate 84 climbs a long slow grade from the Columbia
Through land that's mostly sage, greasewood, tan soil and rock.
Just before the forty mile stretch that's known for blowing dust
Groves of trees in ordered rows like soldiers from the Civil War
Muster up for miles along the highway's southern shoulder.
Poplar trees to harvest quick, to mash to oozing pulp for cash.
Twenty trips I've seen those even green corridors
An odd upthrust against the planes of the high plateau
And wondered who set them there .

In Pendleton I met a man who says he knows
How forty square miles of desert was carefully spliced:
PVC veins sucking water and plant food to uncounted drip nipples
While a satellite signals the master system when the land looks dry.
Cougar, bear and deer stalk each other down those shadowed aisles.
Coyote pups chew the rubber teats, and the master system calls
Repair crews riding atv's to blast the silence and staunch leaks.
Then he laughs and shakes his head and says,
"Law won't let the trees be cut once they've passed nine years old.
Till then they're just a crop, but past nine they become forest.
Might be tomorrow's old growth. "

David Porter 6/05 (c for it's my work)