The lake had it first.
Nature made the design. I'm just complimenting it.
Storms rearrange the shelf.
Water brings wood in. Water takes it back.
Some walks bring nothing.
Some bring a whole afternoon of work.
The myth is in the looking.
A knot becomes an eye.
A spalt line looks like a river.
A mushroom suggests another beginning.
These are the stories we see in the grain—not claims of ancient Lake Erie lore, and not promises of an effect. The pattern was already there. The fire answers it.
Found doesn't mean ready.
Sound wood. Rinsed. Scrubbed. Cut.
Weeks drying indoors.
Read first. Burn second.
Nothing is stained or inked. That color is heat.