Each prairie farm holds the tale— some child saved by the rope anchoring house to barn, or legend of the scofflaw neighbor lost, not found ’til Spring, too self-assured to fix a loosened end. Stretched through utter white, that line is life.
On this plateau of shaped terrain of gentle slopes and trees we carry on without a rope. When, baffled by white of winter storm, black of moon-free night, groggy grey of sleep delayed, I happen upon the fence that brain-map etched by scores of trips along this way brings me home.
Still, clambering from the drift, wet and cold, short one boot, I long for a sure connection
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