Ode to the Belt Sander & This Cocobolo Sapwood

The belt kicks on with a whir & the whir licks the end grain of the offcut with a hint of  hesitation. A small wind of ochre dust sweeps off the belt before the belt comes back to where it was. The whole room swells with the scent of cinnamon & desire. How imprecise the smell of desire. The wood takes on a sheen, a gloss the grain can live behind without worry of  being forgotten. A single knot blinks out of the small block and becomes the eye of a hummingbird, its beak bending around the edge of the wood, its small song captured in the annular rings. To think, this block was tossed in with the scraps. That the bird could have been lost. Or burned.