Stack.

On a small square, wood is being cut ... Cords of healthy, crisp timber are piled high and melt slowly, one log after another, under the saws and axe of workmen. Ah, timber, trustworthy, honest, true matter of reality, bright and completely decent, the embodiment of the decency and prose of life! However deep you look into its core, you cannot find anything that is not apparent on its evenly smiling surface, shining with that warm, assured glow of its fibrous pulp woven in a likeness of the human body. In each fresh section of a cut log a new face appears, always smiling and golden. Oh, the strange complexion of timber, warm without exaltation, completely sound, fragrant, and pleasant!

-- Bruno Schulz, The Street of Cricodiles and Other Stories


I pulled over on the drive home from my workshops today, partly because the car behind me was driving so close that is was dangerous, but also because I wanted to photograph these logs ... stacked high in the middle of nowhere.

The smell of the freshly cut timber was overpowering.

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