lens on oak

It was a lonely rhythmic sound.
One that penetrated into the high crowns of the towering white pines, trees that would take five men to surround just one. Dappled light fell all around the man swinging the double-bladed axe, and wood chips flew from a growing white wound in the enormous pine. There was a perfume in the air, of pine pitch and sweat.
He worked the cut in the pine flesh perfectly, calculating the lean of the tree, the weight of its branches, the strong wind from the northeast. When he heard the first sound of cracking, like the snap from a campfire, he let the smooth ash handle of his axe rest on his shoulder. He looked up. The long needles played in the wind.
"Now," the man said.
A gust of wind moved the treetops as one.
There was another loud prolonged cracking as his tree leaned and then fell slowly. It bounced with a wild crushing sound. and then lay still.
As the dust settled all around him, the man reached down into a leather bag that lay at his feet, wihdrew a broad file, then began to work the blades of his long beautiful axe.