Limbing in Autumn

Limbing in Autumn

Mike brings his chainsaws and his crew,

stout Hispanic men with rough hands

And soft smiling faces.

He hoists himself up into the old maple

To bring down a rotten limb,

Already half gone, an long ugly stub

That threatens our power line,

Come the next ice storm.

He ties himself to the trunk,

A climber's harness cinched tight

To his middle aged waist,

And complains from his perch

As the wind picks up,

'I'm too old and fat for this'

Leaning into the upturning branch for support.

I imagine myself up there,

Then leave it be,

Vertiginous at the mere thought.

The saw roars, spewing shavings

Like the snow now threatening

And they drift into the black hair of the crew.

The limb falls,

One slice at a time

Rounds clunking the ground

Like mallets on a big bass drum.

Below the crew smile, haul wood,

Assemble several spare saws

Like cutlery at the dinner table

Thus one winter worry ends,

The tree's symmetry is restored

And I retreat into the warm den

To wish for snow.