Up attic, Lucas Harrison, God rest br his frugal bones, once kept a tidy account br by knifecut of some long-gone harvest. br The wood was new. The pitch ran down to blunt br the year: 1811, the score: 10, he carved br into the center rafter to represent br his loves, beatings, losses, hours, or maybe br the butternuts that taxed his back and starved br the red squirrels higher up each scabbed tree. br 1812 ran better. If it was bushels he risked, br he would have set his sons to rake them ankle deep br for wintering over, for wrinkling off their husks br while downstairs he lulled his jo to sleep. br br By 1816, whatever the crop goes sour. br Three tallies cut by the knife are all br in a powder of dead flies and wood dust pale as flour. br Death, if it came then, has since gone dry and small. br br But the hermit makes this up. Nothing is known br under this rooftree keel veed in with chestnut br ribs. Up attic he always hears the ghosts br of Lucas Harrison's great trees complain br chafing against their mortised pegs, br a woman in childbirth pitching from side to side br until the wet head crowns between her legs br again, and again she will bear her man astride br and out of the brawl of sons he will drive like oxen br tight at the block and tackle, whipped to the trace, br come up these burly masts, these crossties broken br from their growing and buttoned into place. br br Whatever it was is now a litter of shells. br Even at noon the attic vault is dim. br The hermit carves his own name in the sill br that someone after will take stock of him.