The old green dump truck rumbles backwards into the yard lifting its rusted battered bed and dumping the neatly stacked load in a heap on the leaf-speckled ground. The truck lurches forward displacing the last of the logs then pulls away. The pile sits for a day, a week. If rains come and then a freeze, ice and grass will ride along when logs are pried from their frozen resting place. Standing and contemplating the pile, loathing and loving the job at hand, loading wood into your arms, you begin to beat a path from pile to shed. The pile fades. The shed fills.
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