The Tree That Waited.

There was a tree that waited longer than any of us have been honest.

It stood through winters that forgot their names. It held the weight of snow the way a father holds a child who will not sleep — without complaint, without a speech, without needing to be seen.

When it finally fell, people said: dead. They said: fuel. They said: clear the road.

I said: now we begin.

A chainsaw is a rude prayer. It does not whisper. It does not ask the forest for permission. It sings a hard song and the wood answers in chips and heat and the smell of resin like blood that never learned to be afraid.

I do not carve for the gallery. I carve because something in the grain still wants a face. Because a dead thing can be a guardian if you are willing to stand long enough to give it one.

Arthur pulled a sword from stone. I pull kings from trees. Same work. Different century. The lake still watches.

If you come to Mt. Shasta looking for magic, do not bring a phone full of other people's lives. Bring your hands. Bring the part of you that still flinches when wood splits true. I will see the rest.

The tree waited. I am still here. The blade is warm.