May 24, 2003 02:29
Grab an axe. Plenty of chopping to be done. Enough wood here to last us years. Get us through three or four winters. This tree's been frost-bitten a hundred and a half times, been summer seared and struck twice by lightning (see the gash there? The black split?). Seen Johnny rebs bleeding, carried in on carts. Seen smoke on the hill, low ghost clouds. Seen horses led to stalls, autos treading over the shallow imprint of iron shoes. Watched the slow carving of ruts that run in flash floods. Now it's brothers, these river maples, stand over their fallen comrade, lined like a tired regiment, bandaged by moth tents and canopy crutched over the gravel road between their ranks. One after another time's bullet will fell them. And you and I will split them into equal, stackable wedges to be consumed as needed, thrown on when the fires dim and the house goes cold.