…and yet I shiver twice:
Once for thin walls, once for the sound of time.
– William Stafford (“Fall Wind”)
A sharp chain chatters, chewing at the hard heart
of a Blue Oak felled last week—almost limbless,
dead-standing among half-dozen supple saplings.
Respectful reverie, staying warm, this winter art
acquired Solstice after Solstice, I make my marks
along its loose-barked torso, measuring the woodstove
and my strength to load rounds thicker than the bar
is long. Start the backside, then let the Husqvarna’s
high-pitched cry find a steady level—our eerie
undulating whine absorbed among a crowd of thousands,
living trees despite the drought. It spits chips
turning light to dark. Black Heart burns hot and long.
I now know how Egyptians built the pyramids
on 2 x 6 inclines, each round rolled into a flatbed
that packed alfalfa up the mountain—braiding
our black string of cows and calves within old oaks.
I am warm all morning, and yet I shiver twice: once
for this hands-on song, and once for the sound of time.
for Gary
drycrikjournal 