Weight of the years

Under a late-season full moon on the Gunflint Trail, an old chair stands among the trees with an axe resting upon it. In the pale light, the scene feels suspended—a place where someone might have paused after a day’s work, leaving behind what they expected to return to.

The chair slowly gives way to weather and decay, its familiar shape still holding together beneath the weight of the years. There is no clear story of who might have sat here, only the suggestion of a life once carried on among these woods, and the forest’s patient return.