Piling logs

I told you Tuesdays and Fridays have been reinstated. I don’t plan to do this a lot, but I figured I’d share what they look like.

Back in November I shared a small cabin in northwestern British Columbia with a wood stove, a library, a bed, and little else. Or rather, the valley around us shared the cabin with me. I felt very small; moreso because I was trying to write my Ph.D. thesis, which made me feel as though whatever I was trying to put into the world had to be squeezed through the tiny window of my brain. I spent most afternoons walking around. When I got scared that I wasn’t doing anything constructive, I looked for wood to split.

piling logs, atlin

late november, reaching for warmth
with the rest of folks, you are making
firewood, coming from a walk
on the throat of the river; you are resting
the maul on the toe of your boot as sun
cuts through the banks of the valley, as
woodpecker taps the empty tree, your friend’s
house warm with winter light. you are thinking
of your apartment in the city, thinking,
people do this; people change their lives
for less than this; they do it all the time. somewhere
past the gulch there is the sound of an engine,
somewhere the sound of something splitting.