Stove gloves, long-sleeved and heavy-leathered. I can pick up chunks of burning wood or pyrolized char coal. I am Prometheus! I control the fire fer sher! And the poker and ash shovel and bucket and bellows? That makes me Hephaestus. I feel the more than blood-hot air. I smell the smoke and particulate irritating…

  Cutting wood alone At the end of a half-mile rural lane’s isolation. What else to do? Make sense. Share what you find. Redraw your maps. Work out loud Until your spirit burns . . .