Firewood’s sixty-five dollars a cord:
but, these woods and I work for ourselves
and each other, though it’s hard to see
what good I do it, aside from letting it be.
In rippling water a tube of grey mesh flexes:
a cast-off snake skin: the jaws open and close.
High on young wings, a raven yawps,
maybe the one we rescued, cooped in a crevice,
too stooped to fly, the rock stained with days of droppings,
weakening, starving, stuck. How real it felt,
rowing him to safe haven, perched on a paddle blade,
his smart, bright eye: ” A rich, full life….”
You, reader, must be wondering,
“How do the woods work for him?” Think of the raven
transported farther from hell, by what might kill him
but acts like love. Trust? I’m safe so far.
3 July 2003