chieck standing in river looking at a log
        Fresh dew on the yew. Sun poking up, the hours into the day are few. Boil up some water for the caffeine brew. Just a fiend for my friends, and a familiar view.
	Load up the van, truck, or gator. Gonna get wet, got no waiters. Wearing a helmet, losing the glasses later. Light is here like someone adjusted a fader.
	Launch the canoes on the creek. Been at this a few weeks. Stepping on that swamp mud sure does reek. Smooth sailing when the tight ship don’t leak. If you’re under pressure, you’re gonna pass your peak. In the back tilling until you tear a web, then you tweak.
	Reach an impasse. Nowhere to go except into imperial tear gas. Sticks and stones spoken to Sunday mass. It’s all fun and games, but the jokes are crass. When the work is done, you can float through the forest on your ass. Until then, paddle up creek, march through the grass.
	A tree fell into the mud. Strangled by vines, it didn’t even thud. Might still be alive; leaves still green, branches still bud. Kissing the water’s surface, the log collects lots of crud. Cleaning up the scene, no soap and no sud. Swing an axe down on the bark, hopefully this cut won’t be a dud.
	Grip both hands around the axe handle. One at a time, like legs into a pant-hole. Bring it up to the sky, make it meet God’s mantle. Swing it back down like a blacksmith’s hammer to anvil. The blade drips from the clouds like wax down a candle.

By Chuck Thompson – Inspired by his time in the Congaree wilderness.

Leave a Reply

%d bloggers like this: