Fall 1984 • Vol. VI No. 4 FictionOctober 1, 1984 |

Moths

It had taken since Easter to cut this much. It would be another two weeks till they had pulped all the way back through the thousand acres to the lake. They worked hard, from early breakfast till late supper, as the year turned toward summer. It was just the three of them, Cheney and two green kids, cutting and loading onto Mr. Anderson's old truck. Mr. Anderson wanted the oaks left standing, but he had said Cheney could have the sweet gums and poplars for his own woodpile — just don't cut firewood on wages. That meant Cheney had to come back in the evenings to gather it. Every night he would fill his pickup truck bed with the day's rounds and haul them home. He would split them later, when some of the sap had dried out. The days were getting longer, but it was always dark night when he gave the last log a kick and it rolled from the truck. Sometimes he sat on the steps, too tired to wash, or eat, or sleep. Mr. Anderson wanted the pines cut no lower than waist high to leave

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It had taken since Easter to cut this much. It would be another two weeks till they had pulped all the way back through the thousand acres to the lake. […]

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