Cold Iron and Hickory

Night fell, bringing a sharp bite to the air. I kept moving past the porch timber into the gravel clearing. Beside a weathered fire pit lay a heavy split hickory log and a forgotten flathead steel pry bar, chilled by the dark. I planted my boots into the loose rock, gripped the cold forged steel, and worked its wedge edge under the bark. With one solid downward drive of my weight, the tough wood parted with a clean, dry crack. The scent of sweet wood resin and damp earth came up thick. A solid strike settles the night right.