This spoon I made from the trunk of a birch tree that hadcome...

This spoon I made from the trunk of a birch tree that had
come down in my father’s yard. As I carved, sitting on the floor of my
apartment, letting the curls of wood collect around my ankles, the wood spoke
to me of bone, that I was holding and carving bone of tree. The blade I used to
carve was so sharp I didn’t feel it when it opened up the flesh on my thumb and
a bead of hot red blood swelled from the slice like the tiny bulbs on the heads
of certain pins. Before I knew, my blood had touched the spoon. The wood drank it
so deep into itself it disappeared.