Neither Prey Nor Fledge

The birdseye maple was a dusty log, lurking in the corner of a store that sold fine woods to furniture makers and luthiers. Too damaged for people who need perfection: metal brackets pounded into the end grain, huge cracks from moisture releasing as it dried. They let it go cheap.

I split it by hand with a mallet, pried the metal out, and cut blanks from what was left. The birds eye was under there the whole time, waiting for someone willing to work around the constraints.

Vesery taught me to start from perfect proportions; an egg, in this case. How much could I remove and still see where it came from? Every cut is a commitment; you can't put material back. There's a moment you almost go too far and the thing has to become something else. Salad bowl aspirations, sake cup realities.

I stopped where it wanted me to stop. A spiral at one end like an eye; birdseye maple with a bird's eye. Everyone who handles it turns it over, looking for something.