I'm trying to break up the sticks as much as possible before stuffing them in the bag. The sticks are ripping through the paper anyway. The bag is starting to get full, so I lean it over, shove my foot in and stand up on it. I'm balanced and hopping on one foot to crush the contents down and the bag rips in half sending me tumbling. Hard. My head lands a few inches from the edge of the cement walkway and I lay there windless and dazed. I look up and I swear the clouds start moving in elapsed time and it starts to get darker like some kind of artsy nightmare sequence. I wonder what the hell I'm doing anyway, trying to establish control over elements that are beyond me. I'll create and remove this pile only to create and remove another in the same spot next year. I'm a hamster. I'm at the mercy of trees. There's a cosmic, joke-like futility about the whole thing and I hear a guttural, grunting sound coming from behind and a few feet away from me. After a moment, I realize that it's me laughing out loud at my own stupidity. I scrape myself up and finish raking and bagging, breaking the sticks into still smaller pieces.