The axe forgets what the eye beholds after hours, sodium lights pattern out after half a drink more, to a spray over the horizon settlements glistening in the shut-in sky and the sound of steel against honed steel, an echoed reply.
In the morning, the rooks rush to depart, the trees remember what the axe imparts, a listless longing from the long trek before flickers in the morning, it’s what you stand for in the rosy pink of the morning, in the sudden silence, we stand to listen.
The zeal returns, its madness forming: the axe doesn’t forget how clear its mission is to be at hand, a tool for building and for breaking both, a statement, a stand.