The Sound

It hardly does credit to say I hear it. The river is a fact of life. When a drainage is channelized, it becomes an empoundment, and loses it's voice. This is always the case. Not so much that things don't speak, but that we don't hear the very clear language being spoken. What we've lost is the ability to hear. I said to B that the world is always out there, always on the tip of your tongue. Open the door. Fling open the windows. It's that close. Today, I would have written off the world, read for ten hours and called it quits. There's a pile of books. I need to read. But the minute B comes over and says we need to work on firewood, I understand. He's concerned I'm not set for the winter and knows this tree makes my nut. He says something to that effect. Affect. Trees are alive, they experience the cycles. I never knew a fox that wasn't. And he's right, correct, I need this tree. And being in the woods is so perfect. The place to be. "Nothing could be finer than be with..." In the morning. My course is set. Drizzle, fog. I mark cuts with the hatchet, and clean the ice off. Our rule for this kind of work is to use one tank of gas. Anyone else would call the conditions miserable but we always enjoy any time in the woods. Whatever gets you out there, whatever the conditions. Boots wet, gloves wet, over-suit wet. Everything bucked to 30 inches, 6 or 7 pieces from a large branch (larger than the last tree) will need splitting in half, cut the crotch out, then three length from the main trunk, which will need to be quartered and still weigh 30 plus pounds. Three operations here. A goodly session splitting, B said to bring my lunch (it will take a while) and to do everything to save my shoulders. Metal maul to metal wedge, full swings. Need to pace yourself. Stage two is carrying the splits up out of the hollow, ricking them at the depot. Third is the glory job, piece by piece, back to the woodshed; knowing every step, falling into a rhythm. It's probably one of those things that you couldn't understand, or wouldn't understand why someone else would choose to. It's the closest I approach to religion, a mildly euphoric state. This cutting will produce 26 or 28 carries. A repetitive motion thing, the mind is freed. The fact that it is necessary is important. You need to be in danger of freezing to death, an obvious exaggeration, but who's keeping score, and besides, I almost mean it. I'm often uncomfortable, trying to fit in. It's Freudian, certainly, never having had a thermostat. It's probably important that the wood is critical, not just some rocks you were moving from one place to another. A mindful rather than a mindless activity. I have the thought that I'm telling you too much, then realize I'm telling you almost nothing. There's another sound, I've only heard it twice, my hearing is acute, it's the sound the Sioto makes, running in spate, from rains up north that we didn't get. The Ohio is low and the Scioto is high and there's a sound where they meet, a slurping thing. Back-waters are always interesting. I'm on our side, just want to make that clear. Power fails, you read by candlelight, do what you have to. Not a big deal. I'll need to get out tomorrow. I need some things. A flexible agenda emerges. What I think I need to do. What I think I hear. Are you really there?