In the morning the woodcutter would rise with the light and wash his face in the cols water he poured from a blue and white pitcher into a bowl and and his face would come up from the water the color of cold milk and he would let it dry in the mountain morning air from his open window, which blew in with hollow cries from the window’s hinges, and run his hands which were rough like new wood through his hair and it was thick and cold like dark fir trees. He would drink his coffee strong and black to make himself feel strong inside and he needed the strength for his work. And when he began to work, as the morning light began to warm the window’s hinges, he would take up a pen and write in strong black print bevause this pen was his ax and his wood was his ideas, and he would cut deep into them until they bled rich sap on the paper, until he could count their rings like stacked coffee stains made by smaller and smaller mugs, to tell if they had rooted in his mind long enough ago to grow into a real idea, an idea that could be new, and he could only tell after he had cut deep.