Woodland Mugging, by Eric Smith

He felt the smooth ax handle slide through his grip. The rhythmic sound of the blade cutting into the log beat in time to the tune playing in his head. With each swing, a vibration traveled up the handle into his forearms, and he squinted to keep the flying chips from his eyes. His arms began aching as he breathed harder, clouds of wet mist shooting from his mouth into his beard and the winter air. Eight or ten geese noisily flew out of a nearby tree. He never heard the footsteps approach from behind through the leaves.