Metal sang across metal as the double-cut flat file
ran toe to heel against the Pulaski’s bit, removing
the history of our day [every rock nicked by the adz,
the mineral dirt thrown, the ponderosas cut through by
mumming axe head]. Each moment faded as the file
sheened the edge, raining a mist of steel. If—twelve
years ago—I had cupped these two hands & caught
that steel rain, could there have been a way?