The morning sun came white and early, through the fog that rested over Briar Valley County. Birds darted from pine to tall pine, and the trees cut sunlight into misty, shafts. It was silent, undisturbed, and despite the brumous air, pleasant. A downy woodpecker carried out its namesake, the staccato of its rapping echoing through the canopy, accompanied by the sound of feet disturbing dirt as they walked. Bob stood at the foot of a tree, a great pine, the earth around it stunk and was water-logged, root-rot had unfortunately made itself at home in the tree. Looking up its trunk, he spotted the woodpecker and silently reached for the front pocket of his flannel shirt, slipping his hand under his jacket he produced a skinny book: "Birds of New England: A Birdwatcher's Complete Guide to New England's Boreal Fowl." Drawing a pencil from within the pages, he flicked through before checking the box for the Downy Woodpecker. [i] He had come home from work, exhausted as per usual, but none the less satisfied. He had managed to offload some old IBMs to a chain of gas-stations that operated in that part of New-England, convincing them it would make keeping track of their pump levels and backroom stocks a simpler and speedier affair. And it would, but maybe not for the first few weeks. But throwing in a machine for the manager's wife, free of charge, was no small part in swaying the otherwise reluctant manager. Closing the door behind him, Bob hung up his jacket and tie, before heading over to the kitchen and opening the fridge, peering inside. As he pulled the door open, however, a faint groaning sound tickled the inside of his ear. He ruffled his brows and tried the door once again, swinging it from side to side to see if it was the work of the hinges. Shrugging, he withdrew a soda from the fridge and slammed the fridge shut. As he turned away Bob heard the sound of rushing air, and just as suddenly the ceiling collapsed. The trunk of a pine crashed downwards towards him, crushing him against the ground and impaling him with its branches. He lay there twitching for a few, feeling his beard soak from the growing puddle of vital fluid, before his face became lax and his eyes expressionless.[/i] Bob blinked up at the tree, giving it a few more moments as he enjoyed the cool mist on his face, before picking up the axe that leaned against his leg. He wandered over to the other side of the tree, the side that faced away from his home, and marked with his axe a line about stomach hip level on the trunk. With his first swing, the axe embedded itself deeply, shaking the length of the tree and causing surrounding birds to flee with a flurry of flapping. Drawing his axe from the wood he proceeded to chop down the tree, it was a shame, but he would have rather had it fell anywhere than him. After almost an hour, of un-intensive chopping, the pine groaned in a familiar key, as it listed to the side. Bob had vacated the vicinity upon the first sign that the tree was going to tip, and from a safe distance watched the trunk tear away from the stump as it crashed to the ground. He stood there for a few moments longer, leaning on his axe as the dust settled and the sound of birds returned. He let the axe fall away as he turned around and returned home. Reminding himself to bring the extra fancy pamphlets, to impress the manager's wife.