Ringing.

GETTING IN the WOOD

The sour smell,

       blue stain,

               water squirts out round the wedge,

Lifting quarters of rounds

       covered with ants,

      "a living glove of ants upon my hand"

the poll of the sledge a bit peened over

so the wedge springs off and tumbles

        ringing like high-pitched bells

               into the complex duff of twigs

               poison oak, bark, sawdust,

               shards of logs,

And the sweat drips down.

        Smell of crushed ants.

The lean and heave on the peavey

that breaks free the last of a bucked

        three-foot round,

                it lies flat on smashed oaklings—

Wedge and sledge, peavey and maul,

       little axe, canteen, piggyback can

       of saw-mix gas and oil for the chain,

knapsack of files and goggles and rags,

All to gather the dead and the down.

       the young men throw splits on the piles

       bodies hardening, learning the pace

and the smell of tools from this delve

       in the winter

             death-topple of elderly oak.

Four cords.

Gary Snyder