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 limb,
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.