Through a dense bracket of cedar, a thin trail of smoke can be followed down to the pipe of a man a few years past his prime. He wrinkles his nose and squints, inspecting the wooden figurine in his hand, before letting fly another puff and smoke and bringing the knife in his other hand to bear on the red timber. Another scrape and the shape of the little bear is complete. He places it on the stump where he rests his feet, then leans back to admire the canopy. He’ll add the details later.
A woodpecker hammers on the dense bark of a nearby tree and the sound echoes out across the forest. The man winces, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes, tight, as if to ward off an invading vision. Sometimes the tobacco smells like burning homes. Sometimes the scrape of his knife feels like cutting skin. And on occasion, the little critters of the forest like to remind him of sudden bangs and the yelps of the dying. Give it a moment and it’ll pass. Always does.
There. The man exhales a big plume of smoke. The tension slips from his shoulders. Some fights end when they end. Others keep going, long after the last man falls.
Paddy Dobson
19th September 2020