The donkey don't know that he's dying. After pulling a veneer-quality cherry log out of the woods, he up shit blood and hay, then laughed. It's never been that bad, but he just stared off into the blow down at the thick brambles of huckleberries and buck brush, at the thousands of dollars in timber that lay down by the beaver pond. He knows we got to get it out before the snow flies if I expect to collect. Time is of the essence.

The donkey don't know how much I want that Mustang. Been wanting one since they first started making them. I could turn that old stall into a garage, and buy that one I seen in the valley; blacker than the new moon with enough horses to catch the sun. Drive it in the summer and put it away in the winter. We're both getting too old for this. We cleared forty acres over the years, most of it grown over itself by now. I thought I was done when the wind came through in the dog days of August and knocked down the last of the tall black cherries. I ain't leaving it to rot or get torn up by boring worms. Take that money and get what's coming to me.

The donkey didn't know what hit him. It happened so fast. We were out at the property line, in the thickness, the mess, and I was cutting into this big tangle when a trunk snapped and blasted the beast right in the gut. Didn't hardly flinch, though. He knows I felt right awful about it; these things happen now and again. But he was born working and he's going to die working. Seems only fitting.

The donkey don't know why I dug that hole at the end of the trail. It's starting to freeze; the ground was hard digging. Me and him; we cleared the land. Didn't leave no stumps standing, neither. I chopped and he pulled. It's a shame to leave these last ones, but he ain't going to make it and I don't figure on coming out here again. No need; nothing left.

The donkey don't know when he's going to get the carrot, but he knows its coming. Some people don't think that's how it works. And maybe it don't for all of them, but the trick is: you give it to him every now and then. Incentive. He don't know when and that's what keeps him going, dragging the timber out to the roadside, following his hunger.

The donkey don't know the log truck's on its way. He pulled the last piece. He watches me put away the harness, grab the gun and shovel then follows the carrot out to the stump yard. He don't know any better. He don't mind, don't know its just business, don't care about heaven. To him, it's just another day and he can't wait for that carrot. There you go, old pal. Time's wasting.

L. Burrow's work is due to appear in upcoming issues of Struggle, First Class, and Children, Churches and Daddies. He lives in the Adirondacks with his wife.