The Wood Pile

There was remarkably little about the new house Alfred found appealing.  It lacked history, privacy, and any sense of aesthetic character, fulfilling every aspect of its original design.  The lines were harsh and the glass walls lent an impersonal, cold touch.  Its ostentatious nature screamed 'new money', the antithesis of the once beautiful and spacious manor.  Only one concession had graduated past multiple architectural drafts to the final schematics.  In addition to the radiant floor heating, a single fireplace had been installed in the living room, large enough to heat the entire home.  Much to his delight.  For it was really the only feature that brought him joy.  The kitchen was a postage stamp and the appliances were arranged in no logical manner.  Alfred harbored the secret belief that the house had indeed been purposefully designed to drive him away.  In a way, it had worked.  He didn't live in the house any more than Master Wayne.  

He swung the axe, splitting a log from a tree felled on the property.  The individual pieces flew in opposite directions off the stump, the last two for the season.  The leg wound had set him behind by several weeks and the leaves all around him had begun to turn.  Green faded to yellow and red.  Soon they would litter the ground and the breeze would drop from cool to cold.  He huffed an exhale of satisfaction, and straightened, surveying the uneven pile of wood surrounding him.  Two cords, he estimated.  Perhaps even three.  A summer's worth of effort. 

Yet his work was far from done.