Swinging Tree

The blade cuts into wood, spraying sawdust to wind.
Chips fall across the grass, on the street, in my hair.
An elevated man ties the rope tightly as a noose.
He makes an invisible line to cut across and it begins.
The hacksaw starts with a simple string pull.
The gears put in motion the sound of slashing.
A man trims dead divisions from branch and bark.
Serated edge moving faster than the eye can record.
A section gives way to gravity for the fall.
It swings out and back across earth.
Turning like a man at the end of a rope,
a log for a second holds its own airy death.
The line loosens, and the pull slackens its grip to ground.
Down it descends to a building wooden pile
for a trip through gears, to mulch.