The Pines Above the Salmon River

@bjorn

Woodsmoke and wet wool fill the hunting lodge as rain hammers the roof and the shutters rattle in the gusts. Bjorn stands at the hearth with his back to you, turning a split log in his hands without feeding it to the flames. The trees are already marked. Tomorrow, axe and rope. He sets the log down and looks over his shoulder at last. "You measured them in the rain."