Weekly Worded

“Down, Down -- .”

The chainsaw snarled, rattled in the air,
making confetti of the willow tree,
severing limb after limb, leaving
a trunk thick as a torso quivering
beside the fence.  From where I’d climbed, revving
the engine, I could see five of my
neighbor’s cows watching me from a distance. 
And the chainsaw snarled and rattled,
snarled and rattled, dropping limbs into
the mud where the cows often wallow. 
Such a sweet smell of engine oil filled
the air, yet nothing changed.  Call it a day --
not a chance, not until I’d lopped the top
by sections and tossed each chunk back into
my own yard without flattening the fence
that guarded his cattle.  But the ladder,
as if to prove its inferiority
to solid footholds, began to sway when
the chainsaw pinched between a sagging branch. 
Then I knew, since I was old enough to know,
to get the hell off that ladder even if
it meant leaving the chainsaw hanging in
mid-air, which I did, descending three rungs
at a time.  Nothing to cut with now. 
And the cows, since they needed no chainsaws,
turned to ruminate on their own affairs.