Last night we were visited by a woman named Maud. A couple weeks ago she had offered to take the large logs in the back of our yard, what’s left of the grand old oak that fell from the sky more than a year ago, and sell them to her customers as firewood. We hadn’t found anyone else who would haul them away without charging us a lot, so this seemed like a good arrangement. And then the rains (finally) came, and the ground was too soggy. She’s been busy delivering firewood and hasn’t had time to replenish her supply. Hence the nighttime visit.

So as we sat in our snug house and tried to calm the dog, Maud and two helpers worked by the light of a Coleman lantern. They cut the large logs, hauled them to the front of the house and threw them in a truck. It was a strange sound, chainsaws in the darkness, and made me feel part of an ancient drama. The frantic work of fall, of harvesting late crops and cutting the last field of hay.