dead soldiers from the night before
stared up from their hiding spot still
in their brown uniforms
the snap of the sheath was lost in the
snap crackle and pop of the dying embers
the blade of the axe tested on a thumbnail
cut a satisfying line to proof the sharpness
you turned with precision and gravel crunched
beneath your feet, eyes searching for the
driest piece to feel the point of the heavy head
your whistling echoed from your lips as
trees dance to your tune in the not so gentle breeze

fleshy hands and oak handle embracing
log victim placed on the sacrificial stump
lined up your trial mark 'practice makes perfect'
the swift swinging arm motion followed by
sound from a sudden swing forced a new echo
through the trees landing with a solid thump
and silence
with more whistling eerily into the silence between
the splitting of each one after another, the red painted
axe head was gleaming with each chop while ready
to work again and again and...