A Young Stacker of Firewood

My father’s timber array arrived on an overloaded Diamond Reo flatbed. It dumped oak scraps, leafless dead-woods, inspiring last metamorphosis to warming fires come winter’s weather. Empty, truck leaves then heaves into a scrubby alley squeezing by barely. With its narrow fit made it disappearing through a backyard gate into a cloud of its own making belched from two shaking upright tailpipes. Bark cull, coppice slats, saw food pilled to near roof high. This sawmill refuge awaits stacking sequent, once cross-sawed and set to a suitable size for stove fodder. I am father's volunteer; I am the master stacker of wand-wood. With my bow-saw in hand, I look not on labor of hours nor days, but eternities. In the eyes of evolution's lies I see ancient youths, countless fellows of ten-years-old like me and leap with them to the task of cave dwellers.