Burning

When it snows, I burn brush. Think campfire with new purpose. There's a bench, a couple of brewskis stuck in the snow, my cutting tools, the fire, thermal clothing, a notebook and pen. Today zero wind. A distant dog's bark, like a can kicked down the next street over. Old wood and new mixed. Scenic wonder: it begins to snow again late in the day. Whenever the fire dies down, jump on it like a trampoline to feed in fresh fuel, fan it with fresh-cut cedar boughs. At quitting time, last task, wipe English machine oil on all the cutting tools; that oil, a well-considered gift courtesy the Laramoops.