We walked into a ravine there was a Brooke lined with stones. There were trees lying on the ground every where from a storm. The fall morning was crisp and frosty. Our fingers were stinging as we started cutting and dragging logs to a moss covered rise just above the creek. The bark stripped off easily as we scraped the poles with our axes. We notched and stacked the logs. The work warmed us up in the frigid shade of the steep mountain that rose above us. We cut poles for rafters and we split oak for the shingles. We overlapped them to make them water tight. Our hands ached as we packed the voids of the log stack with clay chinking. In the sunny afternoon we we rammed stones into the floor of the tiny cabin to make it dry inside. As the warm rays of sunshine doused us with hope the crickets chirped their swan songs before the cold freezes them into silence. When the shadows turned to twilight we lit a fire of the log scraps that we made that day. The bright stars, the intense cold , and the firelight shimmering on the wall of our cabin gave us a very remote sense of feel.
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