The coffee sloshed over the side of the cup she held in her hand. She halted, steadying her hand, steadying her nerves. She heard the resounding thud and crack as Jesse chopped the wood. Regaining her composure, she walked to the side of the barn and stopped when Jesse came into view. His back was to her, his shirt hanging loosely over a nearby bush, his hat resting on top of it. His bronzed back glistened with the sweat of his labors as he swung the ax into a hunk of wood, brought the wood to the stump, worked the ax free, and with one deliberate swing, split the log into two pieces. Bending over, exposing a narrow band of white flesh as his pants strained with his movement, he picked up the pieces and tossed them onto a large pile of split logs before swinging his arm yet again and claiming more wood. His actions were fluid, purposeful. Maddie had always thought poetry was restricted to words written upon a page, flowing smoothly, but watching Jesse work, she realized poetry existed in many forms.
