Russell Libby

Applied geometry, measuring the height of a pine from like triangles, Rosa’s shadow stretches seven paces in low-slanting light of late Christmas afternoon. One hundred thirty nine steps up the hill until the sun is finally caught at the top of the tree, let’s see, twenty to one, one hundred feet plus a few to adjust for climbing uphill, and her hands barely reach mine as we encircle the trunk, almost eleven feet around. Back to the lumber tables. That one tree might make three thousand feet of boards if our hearts could stand the sound of its fall.