The woods today are filled with an intoxicating sweetness. I take my nata and go cut some wood. Perhaps an hour passes, or half of one—time matters little. Then I see a tree, hinged by a bit of bark, nearly fallen over. A few chops, and it falls through the canopy with a rush and crash, and then lays still on the ground. The stream next to where I work trickles on. No one comments, silence is the response.
I finish chopping some pieces to size, then take them back up the hill and arrange them in the yurt. Back in the forest, I begin to look around for the tree I had cut, but instead I wander down to the creek. Rains have filled it with clear water, and I sit on a mossy rock. Down in a little pool I see a crawdad carefully crossing the stream bed. It prods something with a claw that skitters ahead of it. Then it shuffles under a rock. I step into the water and walk downstream a bit, then back up on the bank. I see the tree, all thirty feet of it laying there, and I begin to chop it up, starting with the top.
I work for a while. Then I pick up a piece, and notice the wood is still wet. I give up and break some branches off a dead pine tree. Just then I notice a swarm of flies around my feet, coming out from under a mossy rock. Yellow flies. Yellow jackets. There is some impulse that says: pick up the wood! But another, much stronger need overrides and I walk very quickly out of the trees, and run up the hill laughing into the blue sky.