“Snapshot Saturday”
The ax bit deep with a loud “thud.” The tall red cedar tree shook, then the distinctive crack and pop of tearing wood fibers signaled the end. As the tree started to fall, the woodsman stepped back. A blister burned on his right palm. Sweat dripped into his eyes. A smile crossed his face. “Another log for the winter shelter,” he whispered to no one in particular. Old Northwest Territory, within sight of the River Raisin, in the Year of our Lord, 1794.
