Here’s the preface to a novel I’ve been working on . . . let me know what you think!

The dark woods were quiet except for the crackle of burning firewood. An orange glow illuminated the little cove hidden deep in the lush hills as the flames lapped at the bottom of a copper kettle. Shadows spurted in and out of the trees and across the canopy, enlivening the air with their common dance. It was springtime. But an occasional burst of air descended the mountainside, moaning through its hollows like winter’s ghost clinging to the fleeting season. There was certainly an edge in the air, and it reminded Colonel Larson that there was no time for repose, and that at any moment winter could encore its way into his little spot on the mountain.

For a moment Larson paused to listen, catching the sounds of rustling spring leaves, an owl in the distance, the trees creaking above. Soon the sounds were overcome by the copper barrel exhaling a long, slow breath. It was almost time. He adjusted the fire, making sure it wasn’t too hot, flattening it out with a hickory poker.

He circled the still and traced the course of steam, following along from its top into the cap arm, over to the thump keg, and back out into the worm box. Once at the worm box, the steam would condense through the tubing until liquor eventually flowed at the tap. He was ready to capture it. The first few quarts would be pure poison, though. And so he waited anxiously for the clear liquor.
When it was time, he drained off a small quantity into a shot glass, held it up to the moonlight to test for clarity, and then gently placed a match to the liquid. The glass gasped to life in a puff as the liquor ignited, burning a blue flame—a sign that it was pure.
He moved around methodically, filling each jar and placing it onto a cart, the glass rattling ever so slightly as he placed one pint beside the next. Soon he would have the first load, and he would travel back down the mountainside to his little cabin where he would stack the jars in the back corner of his dark root cellar.

He would repeat the routine for several weeks, travelling up the mountain to his hidden operation, filling the kettle with sour mash, stoking the fire, and filling jar after jar with the clear, potent liquid, until he had the volume needed to meet demand.
When he was finished loading the last jug, he leaned back against the cart, pulled his pipe to his mouth, inhaled a long draw of the sweet smoke, and allowed a soft smile to peek from beneath his white beard. Soon a starling began to chatter, and Larson took its cue to start for home.
****
Jonathan Sounder drove along the country road with his windows down. It was an unusually warm spring day. The big man was sweaty. His suit was wrinkled and his tie loose, making him appear more disheveled than usual. The car motored along the dusty road, the trees waving it along as it sped down a long, straight stretch of road. It was a clear day with the scent of green lingering.

He brought the car to rest alongside the road several miles south of town. He lugged his oversize body out of the seat and started toward the edge of the road. He followed along the edge before finding a path covered over by new growth, easing himself down the embankment, clutching the branches of a bush to keep from slipping. The path leveled off and Sounder followed the trail for a while. The sounds of spring were around: robins calling to one another, a jay splitting the silence with a shriek. The canopy had not yet thickened and sunlight shimmered through the leaves with each tremor of the breeze.

At the end of the trail lay the remnants of an old stonewall, part of it standing in full, other parts strewn across the forest floor, overcome by moss and leaves and decay. He made his way to a section that was fully intact and brushed dirt from a flat rock that held firmly as the crown. Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out a bill, placed it on the wall, and set a smooth stone on top to hold it in place. He watched. He listened. He saw nothing. He heard only the rustle of the leaves in the breeze, a squirrel chatter, the jay again. He glanced down at the bill and then turned back down the trail.

When he reached the road he struggled to climb the embankment, nearly collapsing backward as he topped the hill, his arms fluttering wildly as if he might sprout wings to help him regain his balance. He was lucky. He didn’t fall.
He walked over to the car and leaned heavily against its hood, pausing to light a crinkled cigarette. He stood with his eyes closed, puffing hard, holding his pocket-watch with a sweaty, firm grip.

After ten minutes had passed he started back toward the wall. He found himself nearly in a full jog, his big body fumbling along. When the wall was in view again he tried to savor the moment, tiptoeing to the spot where the bill had been. There on the wall sat his treasure. He reached for the jar of clear liquid and pulled it close to his chest. It was one that Colonel Larson had filled.
****
He lowered himself into the car and then rested the pint jar gently onto the passenger seat. He started the motor and directed the car back down the road the way he had come. As he drove he reached for the jar, uncapped it, pulled it to his mouth, and then enjoyed the burn as the liquor passed his lips. He was content.