NUMINOUS STROLL TO THE WOOD HEAP

It was a rented shack with personality issues. Cold, not quite snowed in, crouched beside a stream that allegedly bristles with trout in spring, which felt like a joke since right now it bristled with ice and my dubious choice of a weekend getaway.

Axe in hand and overconfident from morning coffee, I set off to collect wood like a rugged woodland provider. In reality, I was one slippery step away from becoming a small article on the inside pages of the Monaro Post.

Back inside, the day’s cultural program waited. Chess by the fire, hand rolled gnocchi, and Spanish guitar noodling that would impress absolutely no one but me.

I turned onto the small forest path toward the woodpile and the light stopped me. Every leaf lit at once. Soft, holy, unreasonable. Something was whispering. The trees, maybe. Or my joints.

I stood there like a confused pilgrim who had wandered into a postcard.

By the time I reached the pile of frozen ironbark, the glow had thinned. I looked up and locked eyes with a mountain raven.

He stared the way locals look at tourists asking where the real nature is.

Gatekeeper to life’s mysteries? Or just a nosy bird waiting for the first clumsy whack of my axe.

I raised it with the confidence of someone who had recently Googled how to chop wood. I was actually a decent wood chopper, but the bird made me feel wildly unqualified.

The axe came down. A clean, precise split parted the log.

The raven did not blink. Fair enough. Neither did I.

After five long seconds, it squawked and flew away.

Check out the close-up!

* This painting is still drying and will not ship until late March 2026.