Down in the lower woodlot, the woodcutter

whirls his chainsaw through the wreckage of

of fallen logs scattered like pick-up sticks,

skirting tangles of branches and underbrush

ready to snag and trip the unwatchful.

Standing dead trees are chopped down, stacked

for firewood, meteoric chips flaring.

Its work done, the chainsaw sputters and stops.

The air balloons with the incense of pine.

On a convenient stump, the woodcutter rests,

surveying his creation of order

out of chaos, his cathedral in the clearing.

Across the level forest floor, in sunlight

a priestly woodpecker hops, stops, puzzled.

— Holly St. John Bergon