Burning Oak Tops.

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Early morning –
spring’s cubs warming
by yesterday’s hot ashes,
foxbreath flattening as it hits
the rising heat.

Siver birch on the crest,
stand black against an ice sky,
branching like the darkened airways
of giant diseased lungs.

The cubs leave
at saw-buzz.

Cutting up a large oak top – two years dried,
I fix a pattern in my head
(just to busy the brain -
offer a hint of purpose)
and follow it branch perfect.

The thin branches feed the foxfire,
thick ones feed the needs
of woodburning stoves
and the seasonal yearning
for yule-logs.

At frostfall
when the dark cold
begins to lay across the land,
and the east wind blows in the stars,
I stoke up the fire.
The foxes will soon be back
to spend another owl-quiet December night.