Chopping wood
Plumes of white smoke billow out, warming the wispy air nipping my ears. Wrapping my scarf more firmly over my numb, red face, I straggle behind the thick white coats headed out to chop, chop more wood. Piles of logs already sleep beside me -- perhaps enough to warm our house for the winter. It is another long day. A never-ending, constant pressure for wood to fuel our needs.
The thick white coats are already near the boundary of the forest, a gate of trees guarding thickets of life. Snow crunches beneath my feet as I hurry to catch up. I enter. Inside it is another world -- darker, more alive. I am not alone. Towers of trees surround me, breathing, whispering. The thick white coats suddenly become still. To chop, chop more wood.
Plumes of white smoke billow out, warming the wispy air nipping my ears. Wrapping my scarf more firmly over my numb, red face, I straggle behind the thick white coats headed out to chop, chop more wood. Piles of logs already sleep beside me -- perhaps enough to warm our house for the winter. It is another long day. A never-ending, constant pressure for wood to fuel our needs.
The thick white coats are already near the boundary of the forest, a gate of trees guarding thickets of life. Snow crunches beneath my feet as I hurry to catch up. I enter. Inside it is another world -- darker, more alive. I am not alone. Towers of trees surround me, breathing, whispering. The thick white coats suddenly become still. To chop, chop more wood.