On the eve of the first day of spring of 2019, I split wood under a rising, near-full moon, the sky transitioning from blue to black, moving fast through all the shades of steel between. The wood was maple; straight-grained and riddled with intricate patterns of darkened fibers. It split easy. Behind me, between swings of the maul, I could hear the cows rustling through their evening ration of hay, and I paused every handful of swings and turned to watch them rustle and chew, rustle and chew. The moon was directly behind and over them, it had cleared the leafless branches, and with every pause I could see that the open space between the tree tops and the moon had increased ever so slightly.
I turned my back to the cows and to the fat moon. I set another round on the chopping block and raised the maul high over my head. So much wood still to cut, to skid, to split. The land still so deep in snow. The day almost over.