Our January is cast in shades of freezing and thawing earth. Garden steaks stand in rows, lonely for vegetation. Late sugar snap vines kneel, heads bent to the frost, their curled fingers un-pried from the climbing wire. The rusted red tiller is stalled, mid-plow in snow, lost in the white, searching for fertile ground.
The barn day-dreams in the distance, vision fixed South, its back braced against the wind. Every once in a while its gray bones rattle.
A man and his daughter walk across the pasture toward the hickory tree. It’s cold and they don’t have hats.
Train's Whistle 