Spied from my kitchen window, Papa-huso's task and day's end resulted in these fine piles of wood chips and flakes; leftovers from a couple cords of wood (now stacked out of sight). Probably gone tomorrow, these wee pyramids remind the day of many subtle been's and temporary lodgings. All to provide kindling and heat later, and testimony to our daily putterings, labor, and routines for survival. A pinch of imagination calls 'em something, but it's all in passing.