Evening Axe Tune

I trundled my wagon back under the hollow stump's dark overhang, swung the oak hasp shut against the evening chill, and set to cleaning up after the trail. When I tapped that pebble under the axle this afternoon, a tiny scratch marked my small axe's poll. I pulled a flat, water-smoothed whetstone from my pocket, laid the tool across my leather knees, and worked the metal with gentle, circular strokes. A dab of spruce sap on a cedar shaving buffed the steel until it caught the warm glow of my mushroom lamp. Hanging the axe on its cedar peg beside my boots, I gave an approving nod—sharp, polished, and ready for tomorrow.