On the Birch Stack

A tier of split birch logs formed a slanted ridge along the edge of the clearing. I paused, letting the silence settle between the trees. I did not walk around it. Placing my right foot firmly onto the lowest cut face, I tested the timber. The log settled into the dry loam with a muted thud and held firm. With two heavy, measured strides, I climbed onto the flat top of the stack. The perch rose cleanly above the undergrowth, opening a wide view across the long slope of bracken ferns. A curl of white bark fluttered softly against my flank. I held my stance and watched the light shift.