Original Poem — What Humans Do

I felt like it was about time for another poem, so I dug this one out of my files.  This is the first time it’s been shared.


What Humans Do

An ash tree was dying
in the front yard,
victimized by the ash borer.

I paid good money to a tree service
to chop it down
and cut up the wood
into two-foot lengths.

But the wood was piled haphazardly
in the front yard.

This afternoon I was moving it
armload by armload
to a backyard woodpile
sheltered from the weather.

A robin was sitting in my neighbor’s tree
watching me carry
armload after armload.

And I could almost hear him thinking
“This is going to be
one hell of a nest.”

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