A board clattered, finding it's place, a top the growing pile. Puzzle pieces that once formed a shed, now so much scrap. Torn down before it could fall down.
"Some of these boards are from history."
Another nail pinged as it fell into the bucket. Pried from its place of peaceful rest, by hammer and hand.
"Yeah, I think you are right."
Some boards have partial stencils on them. Once they were a clap board sign outside a quaint little shop, of maybe a crate for precious cargo sent round the world. That became a shed, behind a house in the neighborhood. That is now a pile of wood and a bucket of rusty nails.
"Maybe we can make something out of the wood and nails."
"Maybe we can."
The endless cycle of death and rebirth, finds life once again. All things new.