Walking paths through woods, forests thick with pine and oak and birch, sunlight specking the path between the lace of needles and leaves, I've come across stone walls through trees, away from the path, miles from the road. There's something haunted in them. Long-gone farmers deposited these rocks here, held them, placed them, and in that effort, in the solid thing that remains, their human presence is felt, and their goneness. These walls service as a chain backwards through time. Hammer Head: The Making of a Carpenter