Tossing log after log of almond wood from the driveway up to the stacking place.
The far-off December sun warming my forearms.
Whoever is chain-sawing off in the distance hasn’t missed a day since I was a kid.
When the planes crashed in Manhattan we all huddled around the radio like it was the past, but that chainsaw whirred forever onward.
“Take your time, Old Man, the drowning radio will hold its breath for you, and you’ll be better for it.”
And now stacking it. Little cuts on my hands. Young man. It could be a hundred years ago (don’t mind the chainsaw).
Taking pride in the woodpile. Symmetry. Strength.
I almost had it right. So close. And then the fucking cell phone rang.
And so the world and our progress has found me again, just when I thought I may have lost them.
It’s my own damn fault. I should have turned that little chirping rectangle off.
Better yet, I should have hiked up the mountain to the reservoir, and given the bass a small token of our progress.
“Just keep eating bugs, Old Man, always rest in the shadows, and never let this sinking, worthless apparatus distract you from the ospreys.”
I’m just full of advice today.