Every day this week--the sound of chainsaws as background noise. . .

A little quilt I did years ago sort of fits this poem

                  The Tree Trimmers

They've left the squirrels exposed on their branch.
They've left the naked nests
          with the red-tail hawk circling.

They've spent the day like a circus troupe--
          dangling from ropes,
                    balancing with poles,
                              joking as they teeter,
Singing in the tangle.

They've wrapped their arms 
                    around the trunks
          and held the trees like lovers.
They've heard the woody hymn trees sing--
                    felt the age old lyrics 
          through the bark--
And sharpened their blades.

They've spent their day's sweat
                              on amputations,
          on the grisly grinding of the limbs.
And wear the mad debris
                    like New Year's confetti.
Their skin is sticky with amber blood.

They go home smelling of bay and laurel,
          eyes clotted with dust,
                    lungs choked with pollen,
Bits of moss and mulch in their hair,
                              skin slivered.

And when they climb into their beds,
Their women lean into them to smell the green wood--
          a smell honest and raw,
                    like the heart thrown open,
And in their arms are lost among the trees.