scent of evening

you can see them still

bent figures

foraging edges of woods

road sides

picking up sticks

fallen boughs

& if a tree should fall

blown over by winter winds

that truly is a windfall

out come the saws

mainly chain these days

but the bowsaw is still present

& in minutes short hours

all that is left

are drying vines

fluttering dead leaves

to mark the spot

& the smell

from the chimney pots

of woodsmoke

the smell of home

of sleepy villages rural small towns

still in touch with the old ways

if now

they have logburners

& not stoves

always needing blacking

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