Neatly Stacked

Spent the day hauling wood, splitting out starter sticks, and filled the kindling bucket with bone dry baseboard from town. One more good day and I can haul all the rest of the wood from the driveway. There are eight gnarly nighttime logs leaned against the front of the hearth. After I put away tools and came inside I stacked the firewood in three neat ricks near the stove. It's all a lovely sight. I added sardines to the list of things I had forgotten to list on the last list, because for a late lunch I had my famous sardine sandwich. You don't want to eat this if you're going to be around other people. A can of sardines, a slice of onion, and a goodly squeeze from the container I keep on hand that is a grainy mustard with horseradish. It's a wonderful sandwich. All of the wood is frozen, and when I bring it inside, maybe 500 pounds, the temperature in the house plummets by ten degrees. I stoked up the stove and went for a little walk, to give things a chance to equalize. Lots of birds, and I can hear the trains in Kentucky. Beans on toast for dinner and I'm exhausted. My legs are sore from all the trips up the back steps and into the house. Had the radio on, listening to the news and fell asleep, more like a stupor, and awoke to slightly strange and wonderful guitar. A guy from Mali. The blues, kind of, but loose and open. I got up off the sofa and stoked the fire, turned off the radio and sat in the sudden quiet. The light patter of sleet on the roof, just a ruffle of wind rattles branches, and I hear a mouse in the kitchen. The next time I go over there, to get a splash of whiskey and throw a log on the fire, I check the mouse traps. I'll have to listen to the crows complaining tomorrow if I don't have mice for them. The ridge is a fickle partner. Wind-swept and brutal in winter, when anything other than just staying alive seems a folly.