And, sometimes, it rains.

I pick up the rain-soaked branch, examine it and hope that by doing so it becomes dry enough to begin. That kind of hope is futile when the weald wants rain. And, today the forest wants the rain. I chuck the piece of firewood to the pit and wander down one of the myriad paths branching out from one of the myriad firepits of the wode, all of which are the same firepits and yet all have their own accord.