When I was a kid, one of my favorite poems—The Steam Shovel, by Charles Malam—went like this:

The dinosaurs are not all dead. 
I saw one raise its iron head 
To watch me walking down the road 
Beyond our house today. 
Its jaws were dripping with a load 
Of earth and grass that had it cropped. 
It must have heard me where I stopped, 
Snorted white steam my way, 
And stretched its long neck out to see, 
And chewed, and grinned quite amiably. 

I spotted these two pieces of construction machinery posed like a pair of amorous long-necked dinosaurs earlier this week. Where are they hiding out?