I got two bush cords of firewood delivered this week; truckloads tipped with the sound of thunder.
There are round logs and square logs, wedge logs and deformed logs. Wood with latticy fungus or a cancery burl.
And when its stacked (and it will be, soon), all that is littered is scraps and splints and slithers.
But these – these divine sweetnesses of nature so left behind and left over – are what save us.
They’re what coax the fire on that snowy day when work has weakened us and dinner is a stove-hour away. They’re what give that first lick of hope for a nighttime of heat.
They’re not leftovers. They’re not scraps. They’re valuable and they’re important.
Part of the whole of all that is.