Grist
The place had that indefinable air of desertion that comes upon a wilderness cabin in such an amazingly short time. The wood-pile, huge, yet clearly but the remnant of a winter’s supply, had not yet sprouted any of the mosses and lichens that multiply on dead wood in the short Alaskan summer. The axe, even, was leaned against the door. Chips still rested on blades of the quickly-growing grass that comes before the snow has vanished. A pipe rested on a bench before the house. But the place was deserted. The feel of emptiness was in the air.
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