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?