Dave Bonta's poem paints rural life as a place where nothing runs straight. Roads, paths, and plans all fork, so you can only reach anywhere by going "sideways first," like a knight in chess or a weasel in the grass. The speaker suggests that belonging out here means running out of luck, getting saved behind a barbecue shack, and losing arguments with moss. There's dry humor in all of it.
Underneath the jokes is something darker. The speaker wonders what lies buried underfoot, and the imagery of mountaintop draglines, fracking rigs, and a chainsaw that "mutters between screams" points to a landscape being damaged by industry. A rising creek threatens to wash away the leftover junk of that past.
Still, the mood isn't bleak. The poem ends on a rambling rose that blooms every June in the "small of the back of beyond." The tone is wry, affectionate, and a little wary: the speaker knows the place is rough but loves its stubborn beauty.