It is the sound of the log splitting br and its echo br which marks my passage br into manhood. My father stands br by the porch as the ax swings up br and falls. br He studies the way I go br with the grain and let the ax do the work. br He studies the rolling of my shoulders br with each whack into the dense br wood. He remembers his own br father teaching him to swing a pick br in the dark tunnels br of the Pennsylvania coal mines. br With a carbide lamp br splitting the darkness, br he brought to the surface br buckets of coal. As he straitened br the stiffness out of his back and legs, br he’d squint into the harshness of light - br fearing the darkness behind him. br Now, after four, five, six logs br and after ten, eleven, twelve logs br split and stacked, he squints into the sun br breaking through the clouds br and sees the spots br of early manhood rising.