Wood, soil, ferns

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...

My own Private Asphalt

Down the road, a long way down the road. 14 hours and I'm going no where. Deep into the night I have my own private road, empty in front of me, empty behind me, nothing coming towards me. Loneliness on the highway but at least my own private road, 3 lanes of black asphalt, all mine. The lines fly by, they guide me home.

The full moon over the trees on the way south. The full moon above me on the way north. The sun rises as the hours have passed and the moon slips behind the trees to sleep as my journey to no where ends. Such a long way to ride, such a long way to drive.