He took me with him to the woods.
I sat cold in his dump truck, 
reading my small town library books, 
listening for the Pileated Woodpeckers.
I compared them to the thuds
of my Daddy’s axe. Chop. Chop. Chop.
Blue Jays called through the 
dead of woods. Gray Squirrels
ran around, up, and down
the trees, Daddy said were too green to cut.
They gathered their acorns and seeds.
All of us preparing for the dead of winter. 

Daddy loaded up his dump truck
like the Gray Squirrel held seeds in its cheeks.
Together, we delivered to the elderly,
the sick, and the cold. They all thanked him,
offered what they could. More often than not, 
pocket change and a sorry smile.
Before we left, Daddy started their fires,
said, “Don’t worry ’bout it,” and took me home
with his own pockets empty.