Hunter/Gatherer

In my mind
I fell the tree
as if I were a panther,
drawn claws wet with pitch.

The tree, falling
has no time for pretense.
It knows I’m more
a Kosher butcher.
A short prayer and then
the quick cut through the sap.

The stacked cordwood
an oak abacus, counting
on winter’s arrival,
the haunch of a blizzard
slung over its shoulder.

                                                                                                                                    Published in RiverLit