The Tree

By Peter Bowden


The tree had stood long enough. It leaned like an old man against the edge of the clearing, half shadow, half memory, bark worn thin by squirrels and summers. The man circled it twice with the ax on his shoulder, like a dancer sizing up a reluctant partner, muttering to no one in particular, “You’ve had a good run.” The dog sat nearby in judgment, as dogs do, ears twitching at every creak of the wind.

The first swing rang like a dinner bell. The second thunked low and solid. Chips flew, his breath came out in bursts, and he felt every year in his back and every boyhood afternoon in his swing. Halfway through, he paused, leaned on the handle, and looked up. “You could still win,” he told the tree. But it didn’t. One last crack, and down it came with the slow, reluctant grace of something proud. The crash echoed down the hollow like applause in an empty theater.

By sundown, the rounds were stacked like cannonballs beside the porch. He peeled off his gloves, took a deep breath of woodsmoke and early frost, and smiled. The dog wagged. Winter would be cold, sure—but he would be ready. And come January, when the fire popped and hissed, he’d think back on the day he bested that old tree and feel the warmth all over again.


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