Sing, O Muse, of the stout-hearted woodchuck,
Dweller of hills, whom men call groundhog,
Whose paws, though small, could hurl mighty timbers,
If fate had gifted him such labor divine.
Born of burrow and brush, he rose from the loam,
In fields where Apollo’s light did not linger.
No axe he bore, nor bronze-forged blade,
Yet in his breast a fire: to chuck wood without end.
Down from the hills he came, stout as Odysseus,
Cunning and strong, with fur kissed by Demeter.
The trees did tremble at his gaze,
And even old oak whispered, “Beware!”
“Would he chuck?” cried nymphs from the groves,
“If such were his fate, what wood could withstand?”
Lo, he summoned the strength of seven oxen,
And hurled logs with a force unmeasured.
Seven hundred pounds of timber he cast,
Each arc a hymn to muscle and will.
Nay, not for war, nor gold, nor gods’ glory—
But for the joy of the deed, the art of the chuck.
Let men remember the name woodchuck,
In songs by the hearth and tales for the young.
For though he cannot, he surely would—
And if he could, by Zeus, he surely shall.
Highly recommend "Stories of Your Life and Others".
I describe Ted Chiang as a very human sci-fi author, where humanity comes before technology in his stories. His work is incredibly versatile, and while I expected sci-fi, I'd actually place him closer to fantasy. Perfect for anyone who enjoys short stories with a scientific, social, or philosophical twist.
Another anthology I'd recommend with fresh ideas is Axiomatic by Greg Egan.
https://github.com/ajeetdsouza/zoxide is a fantastic cd replacement, which stores where you cd to, and you can then do a partial match like "z hel" might take you to "~/projects/helloworld".
Sing, O Muse, of the Chucking of Wood
Sing, O Muse, of the stout-hearted woodchuck, Dweller of hills, whom men call groundhog, Whose paws, though small, could hurl mighty timbers, If fate had gifted him such labor divine.
Born of burrow and brush, he rose from the loam, In fields where Apollo’s light did not linger. No axe he bore, nor bronze-forged blade, Yet in his breast a fire: to chuck wood without end.
Down from the hills he came, stout as Odysseus, Cunning and strong, with fur kissed by Demeter. The trees did tremble at his gaze, And even old oak whispered, “Beware!”
“Would he chuck?” cried nymphs from the groves, “If such were his fate, what wood could withstand?” Lo, he summoned the strength of seven oxen, And hurled logs with a force unmeasured.
Seven hundred pounds of timber he cast, Each arc a hymn to muscle and will. Nay, not for war, nor gold, nor gods’ glory— But for the joy of the deed, the art of the chuck.
Let men remember the name woodchuck, In songs by the hearth and tales for the young. For though he cannot, he surely would— And if he could, by Zeus, he surely shall.