The Forest

The sun receded lazily from the clear sky as a crisp breeze guided a cascade of multi-hued flora to the ground below. The weather was growing brisk and uninviting, not out of character for this time of year. It would not be long until Mother Nature roused from her slumber and coaxed in the gentle blanket of white that enveloped the countryside. The dense labyrinth that was a forest was still, save for the sound of steel on wood that rang out in short intervals. A man’s breath escaped in foggy heaves as the spiteful autumn air transformed the expelled oxygen into a lingering shroud. The soft, warming flannel that shielded him from the elements grew damp as the perspiration from his labors surfaced. Unscathed by the bitter cold, his mind fell easily into the rhythm of his falling axe.

Somewhere, not far from where he now toiled, was his home. It was a humble abode, crafted from the same material he currently harvested to heat it. Inside, his wife would be coddling their newborn son by candle light. It would be growing cold even indoors by now, as the silvery moon took its place in the sky and the sun went to rest. When the man had chopped all he could carry, he smiled to himself. Gathering his cargo, the sweaty, flannel-clad gentleman began his short trip home.

Chance Whidby