This December night is dark and cold, yet the cottage is warm and comfortable. And not just the warmth of heat, but of a hearth that my own sweat and hard work have gone to tending. There is something so deeply satisfying to the soul practicing wise forestry, and entering the woods to gather my own firewood. Whether I am using the chainsaw and tractor, or the horse and axe, my spirit rings in synchronicity with the woodsmen of elder and eldritch faerie tales. I find myself looking about for the girl in the red hood, and expecting lost golden-haired children to knock at the door.