Up before dawn this morning full of plans, oh I am industrious, I am such a hard worker, I will never die. Stepped outside to see what kind of day it would be and across the darkness heard a barred owl call from the spruce trees beyond the old barn. That cool hollow inquiry, “Who, who, who cooks for you?” ending in a raspy churl. That same call sounded through the spruce forests 10,000 years ago. Nothing we’ve done since then can match it.

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Still cutting and splitting firewood to get ready for winter. I’m a wood-chopping son of a bitch. It’s satisfying in all the important ways. Cleaving a log and seeing the bright inside exposed. Smelling the scent of fresh-cut maple. Watching the stack rise slowly toward the sky. When it gets high enough I’ll climb it to the moon and plant tomatoes and beans in that fluffy dust.

One reason I like cutting wood is because it makes me feel like my youthful self. For a few years long ago, in my 20s, I cut and sold cordwood to earn extra money for my young family. I could swing a hammer for eight or ten hours every day, go home, kiss my wife and baby, grab a quick dinner, and drive to the woods with Craig and cut firewood until dark. We stacked the wood in our yard and sold it for $40 a rick. Now I feel as strong and useful as I did all those years ago. I feel exactly the same. Except after three hours of wood-cutting I need a shower and a nap. I wake up with aching muscles, but I’m happy.

One of the Dennis woodpiles

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Most years in October there are a few days when warblers pause in our yard before continuing south for the winter. Flitting about in our cedars, maples, and walnuts will be yellow-rump, palm, pine, yellow, black-and-white, common yellow-throat, and occasionally Canada, magnolia, chestnut-sided, Wilson’s, and other less common species. But we missed them this year. Why? Probably because we were too busy or too inattentive.

But a few days ago I caught a glimpse of an unfamiliar small bird flitting among the branches of the tree debris that remains piled next to the garage where it fell during the July windstorm that everyone around here is still talking about. The bird was quick and in constant motion, like a warbler, but its color was unusual, a rich dark brown, and it remained close to the ground, like only a few warblers will. Then I saw the tail: cocked upright and stubby. And I noticed lines of fine dark banding on its wings, tail, and flanks. And I knew. A winter wren. The first I’ve seen in our yard in the 24 years we’ve lived here. I hurried inside for my binoculars and spent ten minutes standing at the door watching the shy and busy wren picking bugs off pine and cedar branches. Winter wrens are not particularly rare, so I don’t know why I’ve never seen one in our yard. Probably I’ve just missed them. But seeing one that day, in that place, made me feel honored. We were visited by an honored guest. I opened my arms in welcome and the busy little gentleman ignored me absolutely, as he should.