The oak looms before him at the grove’s edge, the most massive of its number. The axe head is bright and capable, the handle of hickory accustomed to shocks. He hefts it, swings, and bites into bark that is thicker than many of the saplings around him. A second strike lands, and a wedge the size of his hand flies free.
The clouds obscure their numbers, grow flat. The day is gray. When his axe parts the cold air it makes almost no sound, but the chunk of impact carries across the hills, sharp and dull at once. He looks at the heavy limbs bending above him, still clutching late leaves of brown, and acorns in fuzzy cups that will never see germination. He bears no grudge against this tree. And still, it must come down.
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