Working back and forth across the ground dragging logs to piles leaving them lay for a season, then splitting the logs, and laying them out. ~~ By a river he lived for thirtyseven years cutting the meadow with a scythe in the hot June sun. Seasoning the land with his own sweat of work. Laying logs aside, for winter. Bucking and splitting, tucking things in. Then he died. Everything came back in. The river flooded and washed it clean. ~~ Far below where they were cut seasoned logs roll ashore. I slice off an end, with a sharp knife. Light a fire, burns salt blue. Roast an apple, eat it hot. Toss the core into the flames. Heating and eating and resting along where things come down to from far away. Seasoning myself with sand. Thinking of it all, laying with it. Staring at the sky, and wondering how the work of becoming something all comes to a point then disperses breaks away and is gone.