The trees on Eighty Acres have many voices, and they often speak to me as I wander under their outstretched arms. Sometimes their voices are soft whispers. On windy days their voices are loud roars. In the early morning I can hear their welcome calls, and In the quiet of each evening they sing their good night songs. But Imagine my dilemma when each fall season I rest my chainsaw upon their trunks. The razor sharp chain spins at nearly 90 feet per second as it slices through each log, sending chips and sawdust flying in all directions. What voices do I hear then? Screams? Weeping? I lay the chainsaw down and carefully stack each piece of wood in a neat row. Then sitting upon the the stump of the tree, I quietly thank the Earth Mother for her gift of fire wood to keep me warm this winter.
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