Preserve

I carry the wood like a baby, coddled at the bend of my arm. Morning sun hits the neck. Wind tongues each cheek. Down the valley grey mountains hide in the thick of fog.
 
Pick up, cradle, carry.

I place the wood on top of her sisters and push her between cobwebs. Under windowsills. She lines the porch with the promise of warmth.

Stack, turn, repeat.

The storm moves in from the west—California, Nevada, Utah, here. A day until the snow arrives. It’s warm now and sweat tumbles down the spine. I take off my fleece, let the wood poke into my skin, break it open, rub into me. Splinter.

Weeks ago, I curled between Aspen trees, let gold leaves dangle over my face. I stepped over the blanket of fall, pure yellow paths cut between pines. I lay on the forest floor, rubbed my head into its dirt, threw off my top and let the sun meet all parts of me. I slept.

The porch is lined. Stacked with logs. Now, I cut.

I pull a log from the left—last year’s wood—and place it on the stump. I push my hands into small gloves. Hands around the maul. Bend the knees. Balance the body. Study the wood for natural splits. Bring the maul over the head. Swing.

It separates onto the porch. My hands gather the breakups and place them into a black bucket.

Weeks ago, I walked into black-ash trees, hit by summer fire. My hands caressed the limbs. My nose pushed into their centers, smelled the death of their burn. They shifted with the wind. Thin, dark torsos. Dead but swaying. Wildflowers took over the forest floor. Pinks, yellows, whites and purple pirouetted around the gone. I sat in this graveyard. I cried.

I carry the wood like a baby. I place it into the stove and rip cardboard into crooked rectangles. I tear into newspaper, with headlines of school shootings and smash it into balls. I swipe a match and watch the words take fire. The flames are moss green at their base. Yellow-burnt tips. The logs burn black. I think of the seasons.

The house smells of spirits. I dig into this sadness. Cut into this wood. I feel strength in my back.

Months ago, I arrived in these mountains. I stepped upon their ankles and stumbled through their forest. I felt my lungs struggle, my breath shorten, my lips thirsty. I hung onto trees for support, wrapped my bony fingers around them and pulled.

I gather the ashes with a small shovel and empty them into a silver container on the porch. The snow hits my face. The wind smacks the shovel. Wood ash drifts into night. 

Mornings

Apacha, your dog, approaches the bed and whimpers. Your body turns and slides off the mattress. Feet walk down the wooden hallway, hand twists the knob to the north-facing porch. Brisk air licks the skin. Apacha steps out into still-black morning. Legs climb back into bed. Body fades and shuts until pink and yellow light take over the room. Up. Chop apples into curled wedges, pull long carrots from the fridge. Put both in bag. Bag in hand. Boots on feet. Feet on dewy earth. Admire surroundings. Mountain air in lungs. Lungs in body.

The bigger miniature donkey hee-haws then mounts the smaller miniature donkey. Good morning to you too. Two sturdy, old horses approach the fence and poke their noses into the plastic bag in hand. Pull out two carrots and let their mouths chew with their gums. Smell the ground on their face. Donkeys get apples. Their swollen, sweet heads tilt through the fence. Horse noses bonk your shoulder. The grey-dusted one wants another carrot. It glides into his mouth. The brown one shifts away from the others. Follow him with a carrot. The sheep yell. Bah, bah, bahhing. They wait, impatiently, at their gate.

The bag is empty. Fill the trough until it's spilling with water. Tell Apacha stay. He's nestled into the ground, blending with the tall, gold grass. Amber eyes follow. Yellow lines follow. Black globes follow. Follow the sun-drawn shadow to the pen. Unhook bottom latch. Unhook top latch. Pull open. Step back. Watch five earth-toned bodies--sand, dirt and night--hop out and run down the driveway. Apacha watches them. Watch Apacha. Stay.

Pull the pocket knife from the pocket. Cut into the bales of hay. Pull out six flakes. Disperse into three piles. Hop onto a fence post and push the hay off the sweater. Pull it from shirt, bra. Watch the equines lift hay into their mouths. Listen to this sound--the satisfaction of swallowing, the simpleness. Watch the day turn blue. Bold, vulnerable blue. No cloud. Naked blue. Swim in this blue. Swallow this blue. Sit on that fence post for longer than expected. There is nothing else to do. No one to respond to. This is your place right now. This spot on this post. Listen. Listen. The blue bird flutters into blue sky. 

Apacha approaches the other side of the fence, sits on the ground and looks at you. Expectantly. Whimpers. Okay, okay. Respond to him. Hop over the fence. Fill two buckets with water for the sheep. Unhook the latch to the pasture and walk the fence line. Watch Apacha sniff. Watch him test bits of horseshit in his mouth. He jogs to you. Watch the age in his hips. His two back legs come together as one. Hop, hop, hop. Watch his tongue flap from the side of his mouth. Walk into silver-tree limbs. Walk into pines decorated with the last of the aspen leaves. Christmas trees. Golden globes. Inhale the forest. Caress pine needles. 

Walk to the stream. Pick up feathers. Pick up bones. Hold them. Hold the life they were before. The strength they give now. Finger them in your pocket.

You are living.

Watch Apacha dip into stream and take long licks of it. Stand there at the perimeter. Rub the bones in your pocket. Swim in the naked sky. Stand still.

Write lines in your head for when the night turns into star dots.
Write lines you'll forget by the time you get back. 

Align the bones into new bodies. Put the feathers above your bed.

Fill the kettle with water. Grind coffee beans.