Saw an old photograph in a magazine of a guy sitting atop a stump in the middle of a river. There were trunks and limbs everywhere — a massive logjam. If that happened during the fall months back in the 1800s, you were out of luck until Spring. 

When his back was at its broadest, 
And his means were at their most modest, 
He shouldered his neck of the land, 
With a muley saw gripped in hand, 
That shrilled lead in a tree-splitting chorus. 
 
All autumn he labored in good employ, — 
Thru the pain his bones ached to avoid; and 
After the clearing had sapped all his strength, 
He bucked the timber to market’s length, then 
Pointed the mules to’ard the chilly St. Croix. 
 
To the mill his kill he dutifully skid 
    Downstream, as it lazily slid, 
But when the water became o’erwhelmed, 
By the lumb’ring white pines he had felled, 
He feared himself a stuck river pig. 
 
Like brothers-in-arms, the limbs banded first, 
Then leant on each other for added support, 
And when reinforcements shored up the rear, 
His heart filled up with heavy despair, for 
The backwoods refused to march forward! 
 
Its current now past, ‘twas a sure lock, 
It would take thirty days to unblock — 
Far too long at this time of year, in 
The unforgiving Midwestern air; 
The river beneath would soon turn to rock. 
 
Atop a stump he paused to critique, 
The nature of his calamity: 
Until next April’s next faraway thaw, 
He must surrender to an icy stall, 
Constructed by boards and planks to be.