Long-handled loppers,
a grub hoe, a rake,
and a pocket full of strike anywhere matches.
Moving slowly up and down
the steep forested slope below our home,
losing track of the tools in the dense fern and Oregon grape.
Smoke rises from the brush pile burning below.
The song of the winter wren curls upward with it,
reminding me to listen to the two small streams joining together,
in a meandering hurry.
Picking up branches and deadfall,
accumulated over the previous winter.
That's the objective.
The crunch in last year's leaves adds urgency to this year's task -
how could it be so dry already?
And where are the slugs?
How could there possibly be so much change
in one person's lifetime?
I glance at the house above me,
cobbled together over a span of many years.
Made of the Doug fir and the western red cedar
surrounding it.
Like discovering a nest in a rather precarious position,
you ask, "why did this silly bird build its home in this spot?"
Hmmm. Good question.
Flat ground is rare on this five-acre parcel.
I pause, taking a drink of water.
This is home, but not just for me.
Pulling my dirty gloves back on,
I watch a robin flip over a vine maple leaf.
Then I keep working, trying to do my small part.
Perhaps the robin is too.
I drop another armful of branches on the fire.
That's where we need to begin, right?
Taking care of our little part?
Sometimes we have to narrow our focus
to keep hope in our grasp.
I turn and head back up the hill,
carrying my thoughts and the smell of woodsmoke with me,
done for the day.
