There was a silence that
made the air still around
my cabin with only
soundful whisper of my
bow saw that was whispering
amongst a dead tree. That
I was sawing. To get some
fire wood out of it for the
winter stock that is set to
be ready. For my bow saw
though kept singing as if
it had a song to sing for
it was whispering away
against the dead tree that
was leaning up against a
table out near. As the flakes
of saw dust started to
mound - and - the sound
of my bow saw kept
whispering as it connects
with the dead tree. As it
impiletates the tree with
reason, and for which is
was near the winter season.
And where I take my bow
saw and put it back and
from where I left the flakes
of the saw dust to lay for
the mid summer's day so
it can go any day.