ONE MAN’S ART IS ANOTHER MAN’S FIREWOOD
The sun dispersed through the falling leaves like exhaled powder, the dogs romping ahead of me along the creek. It was one of those Man, if I could only capture this in a bottle kind of early fall days. The gnarly mass poked up from the mud bank. My first thought was to pass it by, but something about its stark severity made me pause. We were out in the common area behind our house, scouting for downed, aged wood to put on the lathe. I’d recently started woodturning, and was discovering the joys of uncovering hidden treasure from spinning blanks.