A spritz of rain all day long, never cold enough to turn to snow. Maybe overnight.
The woodpile is stocked but badly piled. Never two pieces sawed the same length. Or chopped the same width. Ununiform, a crooked fence line, lots of space between blocks. Pine mixed with fir, tamarack, birch, depending on winter temperatures. It’s good to have options.
Headed high into the bush, behind the old mountain, that still holds mystery to this old fool.
Tested the spring, cut cedar boughs. The dog chased sticks and brought them back. It’s good to be god.
It’s dark early. The cold is coming. Winter. The meat can stay outside, hanging in the shed overhead or stashed, frozen underground. Prepared, even down a quart, hiding behind a crooked windbreak, it’s the best time to be alive.