These trees grew on our mountainside in the sunshine and rain during their dozen years of life. They were brought down by weather or a chain saw, coming though the quiet woods to thin out the stands of weak timber to let sunshine reach the ground again. Their branches and sawdust went back into the soil when their blocks were released by my chainsaw. My hands stacked the round or split blocks into fine long piles, and all summer they sat baking in the sun and drying in the wind. Birds came and landed on them, and flew away again. Spiders crawled up into the hollows, stretching their webs and catching their food.

Gradually the pieces split and turned dark. The bark loosened and fell off. The rains fell on them, and dried up again. Then, in the fall, they were lifted again and stacked in the woodshed. They sat, dark and dry and waiting, for they knew not what.

Last Saturday they were lifted from their comrades in the shed and stacked in the small wood dock behind the back door. Last night they were hauled into the house.

It was warm in there, different than anything this wood had ever experienced. Overnight they acquired the temperature of the room, which was provided by their brethren. And in the dark this morning, I padded down the stairs, lifted them from the wood box, and arranged them atop the coals of last night’s fire.

With a few pieces of kindling and an open damper, the pieces soon ignited. And all the sunshine of their outdoor life was released in hot yellow flames, bringing sunshine again into our warm cozy home while the snow fell thickly outside.