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Whirligigs
Two bearded men: one chops a log,
the other milks a cow. Even at night
they turn their backsides to the strongest
gusts and work like mad, but never
finish, though they bend over the same log
and the same cow for the third year
in a row.
They winter in the cellar,
near the apple cider kegs. For all I know
they take a nip or two, pass stories back
and forth with a speckled tinware cup.
Come spring I reinstate them
on weathered poles among the scilla
and early daffodils. I think they must be
brothers . . . and we three make a family,
waving our arms to scare the crows away.