Working the Woods

The roar and rattle of the chainsaw stops

with the unheard click of a button pushed.

And now, the last tree cut lies where it fell, broken,

and the wood, stove-length, stacked and ready

for splitting, winter’s seasoning, waits for another day;

and I, I wait, too, standing here amid the smell

of sawdust, fresh and pungent, tinged with evergreen,

the ringing in my ears diminishing into silence,

a silence punctuated with the hush of waves soft

on the shore breaking and the call of a loon

echoing, a shrill response from afar clearly heard;

and above me, a lone bird rustles, aflutter,

a song bird unafraid now in this silence to sing out,

nature’s silence, nature’s song returning when we cease

our noise and listen, just listen, waiting.