Yet, there was a certain rhythm to the work. He found a systematic measure between the swish of the falling axe, the sharp report of the strike, and the clinking tumble of the hardwood. The small gratification he gained from the rhythm was poor compensation for the work, true, but it at least it gave him something more pleasant to concentrate on than the growing aches in his body, or time the task was taking from him.
Time indeed. Measure and time were intertwining to create the rhythm, much like a melody. Yes. He set another piece of firewood on the cutting stump. There was an easing in his chest at the thought, and he felt a small smile relax the muscles in his jaw.
He brought the axe round again, his arms and back knotting and tensing with the power of the swing.
“Mir!” Came a sudden shout. The swinging axe missed its target, sped past the cutting block, and cut deeply into the dirt a hairs breadth from the wood splitter’s booted foot.