Trees pop like pistols and the snow drifts and whispers 

as I wade through the morning, ice growing in my whiskers,

snow bombs dropping from the trees.

 

I’m up to my knees with a chain saw on my shoulder 

and I don’t know as I’ve ever been colder.

guess I’m getting older

 

cause I’m thinking I might leave that woodlot alone

turn around and go home

sit by the woodstove and read.

 

Ah, but here’s a visit to chase away the lonely,

this antic and cheerful little crowd of chickadees

come to play by me and make me wonder:

 

how can it be these tiny creatures survive

the weather that would drive me inside?

Shouldn’t they huddle? Shouldn’t they hide?

 

Maybe while my toes still stay and my fingers yet flex

I’ll just choke this old saw and give her a pull

and if she’ll catch …

 

Well, I’ll just get to work, I guess.