The chainsaw spits wood chips out onto my boots, piling up, scattering about, back to the earth falling to be swallowed up and consumed by the remaining trees.
The ferns lay down, not happy with the cold, or maybe it was from the rains in December flooding their home?
The soil is spongy from the rains, clinging to the underside of the tree that lays on the ground, no longer growing.
Its future is certain, split, stacked, dried, and finally, sadly, burned to heat the home.
The day drags on, the sky explodes into colors at the end, only to begin again in the morning, burning blue black, yellow, orange, red, and blue. Another day...