Thunk.

Old Crow and Ghost watched the axe swing high, pause ever so slightly, then come crashing down.

Thunk.

Old Crow had watched the humans do this for hundreds of years.

Thunk.

Sometimes to the trees of the forest; the sound a sharp crack as the wood splintered and scattered wide.

Thunk.

Sometimes to each other; that sound wet and dull.

Thunk.

That sound was much harder to forget.

Thunk.

Labels: Fresh Gravel For Your Craw, ghost, Inktober, Inktober Day 9, Old Crow, Pentel