The old green dump truck
rumbles backwards into the yard
lifting its rusted battered bed
and dumping the neatly stacked load
in a heap on the leaf-speckled ground.
The truck lurches forward
displacing the last of the logs
then pulls away.
The pile sits for a day, a week.
If rains come and then a freeze,
ice and grass will ride along
when logs are pried
from their frozen resting place.
Standing and contemplating the pile,
loathing and loving the job at hand,
loading wood into your arms,
you begin to beat a path from pile to shed.
The pile fades.
The shed fills.
Quietly Making Noise 