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.