He stepped through the doorway into the bright morning and stood on the deck and looked out at the sky. He removed his jacket and took the work gloves from the table on the deck and walked out into the morning dew.
He took the bowsaw from a nail on the wall beneath the deck and looked again at the dead tree at the edge of the field and weighed the possibilities. He could get it down, he thought. But things could go wrong. He’d have to climb fifteen feet to make the first cut and there was no telling when the trunk would give way. He’d had luck before and made the cut just deep enough and then tied a rope above and descended and pulled from the ground below and the trunk cracked loud and fell his way, over the fence and out of danger. He thought he could do it again. Why not? But the downside was real. He knew men his age who had fallen from trees they were pruning and some who had been hit by branches and then laid up in hospital and then bed-bound for a month. You could get killed, it was that stark.