I store most of my firewood in the garage, which sits at the bottom of the hill on the backside of my property. Normally, I drive my small truck down there, which works out well if I need a good amount. But if I need just a bucket-full, I walk down both for the fresh air and the exercise. I did that today, as I have on many other days, savoring the sweet smell of the damp November ground as I walked along.

The wood safely delivered to the front porch, I often make my way to one of my favorite spots behind the shed, which I consider a sort of gateway to the deeper woods beyond. Most of the trees are now bare, save for a few oak leaves hanging stubbornly on, and branches creak and groan in the wind like arthritic limbs.

This gently sloping land is once again drawing itself in against the impending winter. After a welcome stretch of mild weather, steam rises from the leaf-strewn earth as a sort of homage to the end of yet another season. The meandering rock walls, mossy outcroppings and damp hollows will soon disappear once again beneath a white mantle as they have for hundreds of years before I looked out over them. Who else has stood here where I now stand, gazing out across the pine-studded hill? Did others see it as I do, as a temple of sorts where evil has no place? Did it ever have a purpose beyond serving simply as a living affirmation of the world’s greatest truths?

Oak, maple and birch, poplar, ash and hemlock, all stand in testament to nature’s tenacity, to her eternal capacity to reproduce and to reclaim that which no one can truly own. Which among them was here when much of this area burned in 1947? Did those tall pines survive, and do they bear deep in their layers the evidence that they do remember?

Humans are the only creatures that have the capacity to create for the sake of creating, to build what could be done without, but for the sake of building. Birds build nests, chipmunks and moles tunnel into the earth, beavers build dams, and woodpeckers drill holes in trees in which to breed. In all cases, these creations are necessary to the survival of the species that constructed them.

In our case, we often build simply because we can, picking up where nature leaves off by deliberately crafting objects that speak of who we are. Be it a skyscraper conceived in the architect’s mind, the bookshelf wrought in a woodworking shop, or the eagle’s aerie built of sticks, in every instance, creation is taking place, be it instinctive or deliberate, a pattern picked up from nature that has never ceased since time began.

Here on this hillside, creation is a much more subtle process, but one of which I have become increasingly aware during the years I’ve been here. It might be nothing more tangible than seeds falling from birches in the spring, indicating a time of procreation, an abandoned hawk’s nest or chipmunk hole, or a fox screaming in defense of its den or its young.

What is an ongoing process in all of nature extends most assuredly to humans who, for the most part, take seriously their ability to make the things they need to live and to go beyond that in a process we call artistry. That fact alone never allows us to forget that we are indeed a part of the eternal cycle of creation whose foundations were laid out thousands of years ago across humble hillsides such as this one.

A solitary crow flies over as I turn to go back inside where I will put more wood on the fire and continue to ponder these questions. The sleek black bird reminds me anew that I am but a tenant here, only the latest to stand and wonder at what was and to ponder what might be. The view toward the past is blurred and that toward the future is still a blank, but somehow in these woods and in these words, this singular moment in time is all that really matters.

— Rachel Lovejoy, a freelance writer living in Lyman, can be reached via e-mail at rlovejoy84253@roadrunner.com.