Good morning!
It’s Saturday, and while Patrick and Richard and Gary are busily draining the feeders and burying sunflower seeds throughout the yard, we’re awaiting the arrival of something that will similarly sustain us all winter: firewood.
It should be here any day now, which is good since this is all that remains of last year’s woodpile. The man who brings us wood also builds and maintains the roads on our peninsula. It would appear that the wood and roads are connected, since roads often need to go where a tree resides—and trees, similarly, often like to take naps on roads.
So we will wait until enough suitable hardwood specimens have surrendered to his chainsaw, and then it’ll be our turn to start stacking.
“O joy! that in our embers
Is something that doth live.”—William Wordsworth
Onwards,
Clara
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