There is a pile of branches collected over several storm cycles and stacked right in view of the back deck. Yesterday it bugged me enough that I moved them, in two parts, to the bigger burn pile in the front acre, out of sight of the house.
First, half of the sticks were lashed together with a piece of new white clothesline rope.
Then the bunch of branches were dragged past the granite marker named Ogum, and past the peonies, deer flies dive bombing the bald spot on top of my head where I was conked with the butt of a pistol when I was a child. On this stick-dragging day I felt like a Biblical Ruth gathering sheaves of grain in the field.
The dirtied rope was untied and the branches cast one at a time to the top of the burn pile.
The reward at the end of this surprisingly fast job was a sampling of black raspberries growing at the edge of the new pile.
Today perhaps I'll tackle the stones.
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