Quiet

It's quiet. I stare out the upstairs screened window covered in that layer of rain splattered dust as the chain saw hums. But to me, it's quiet. The incessant demanding buzz that shows man is in the forest- doing burly things. Man things. Taking a crack at the tree that the Beaver decided might be his. He gave up. Waited a year. The Beaver- or another one of his cocky two-bit friends tried again last autumn. Maybe they're in cahoots. A tribe of Beavers. A herd. A flock. A band of Beavers. Nevermind the 2 foot diameter. Nevermind the tree is three stories high. I have to admire his fortitude. And perserverance. But it's too close to our cabin if the wind hit just right. Nearly severed half-way. Supported by it's brethren trees in the little grove. Somehow the wind can always hit just right. We know this. The Beaver probably does too. Maybe he's banking on it. Or this Poplar (or Aspen) proved too delicious. Perhaps he was bored. His eyes bigger than his stomach. Or brain. But, then none of our brains come up with the name of tree species in question. And that, the Beaver knows. He also knows the best way to fell it. To haul it. We're just best-guessing.

I take in the moment. Musings. It's relative. It's funny that a chainsaw can equate with quiet. The boys are outside. Therein lies my solitude. I have taken a moment from leaf raking and log hauling and brush clearing and blister salving to survey the scene.

A fire burns in the ring to the right. Made by my son. With a flint. On wet tinder. How does he do it? The persistance of 22 minutes of knife scraping skills between the older two. Their attention span not long enough to clear the table from dinner. But the bow crafted from a beaver branch, shoe laces and pocket knives thrown on the ground there proves to me again their fortitude when the craft is deserving.

Hatchets smack. Small arms. Biceps weilding. Snapping off slash. One at a time. Good position. Safety first. Smack. Smack. Smack and the buzz of the men in my life solving a problem. Together.

Tyler hits tree after tree with one of the Poplar's missing arm. "I do it. I do it too. I get the tree." Walluping away at the sturdy Ponderossa pine sapplings that bend and then switch back to graze his dirty face. "I do it."

No lists. No phone calls to return. No repeat-conversations in my mind. None of the too-often mind over matters played: "Should I have said that? done that? been there? What did I forget?"

I am felling a tree. Grooming land. With my boys. Instinctual. Fire. Woods. Family. I look around. Pause. Find the band-aids and go down. But not until after a prayer of gratitude. For quiet moments such as these.