Читать книгу A Perhaps Line - Gary D. Swaim - Страница 8

It is a dark, heavy sound, that cleaving

of wood from wood, of dead or decaying

from green life.

An axe, never sure of its mark, cuts

indiscriminately into browns and greens,

and cedars shout their pain down hillsides

toward the river, but the river will not

have it—sends it climbing back over scrub

and underbrush, back to the sharp blade edge

I hold in my hand.