Pine Log on the Gunflintby Luke HinrichsLying in four feet of snow, cleanly sawn and silent, with wolf tracks leading up to its scabrous skin, rivulets of golden sap frozen in its chinks, is a severed white pine. One hundred thirty-three wind-shaken rings mark its rising to magnificence, its thunderous fall into the drift. © 2005 by Luke Hinrichs. All rights reserved. |