Wooden clouds, raining sawdust
that catches in her lashes, dusts her scalp
Sweet smelling. The sky is criss-crossed
with rafters. The girl’s name is Sky.
She stares cross-eyed, beaming
at a woodpecker hammering
an electrical pole
Bow-legged, knobby-kneed. She saddles
a sawhorse, straddles a half-sawed log
that spans the stream.
The water gurgles between the rocks,
between her legs, she screams
a splintering laugh Her curly locks,
corkscrews of peeled cellulose.
A trickle of sap runs down
her smoothly-sanded cheek.
She pops her joints and throws a peg,
squeaky hinges, pulls herself up the rope
to the rusty pulley screwed to a tree limb.
Swings from a plank, clatters up
the rungs of a ladder, grips a paddle,
splits herself in half to ride both extremes
of the creaking see saw, pauses to watch an ant
clinging to a blade of grass that scratches the brook
From branch to branch Sky bridges the gap
Between her legs she grips a blade
whetted sharp enough to strip the thickest bark
or fell an elm with a single bloody chop