A splinter of moon lodges deep
in the limbs of the spruce.
My brother—half my age, shivering—
lifts the splitting maul, one
smooth hand gripping the heel,
the other at the haft. The steel
he set and honed himself glints
at the crest of his practiced arc,
dividing cold from dark,
each half-log of knotted oak
from its twin. His shadow, large
as a man’s, pitches headlong
into the dirt.