Late . . .

Snow on the haybarn roof comes early, whispering winter’s fearful warning: “Late.”

Icy puddles on the gravel road say I’m late for the season, late for the test, late for the chores that should’ve been done—summer’s hoses lie frozen on the lawn, un-sectioned timber lies frozen on the roadside, the last few inches of water stand frozen in the risers, horses clomp over too-short grass wearing frozen shoes.

Birds wing south, gophers dig deep. Elk ramble down the mountainside, gathering in their hundreds. Bugles whistling across the deep chill of dark nights, shadows passing just inside the edge of the trees. So much to get done, so much to take care of, so much to see to—all under a darkening sky, all in the teeth of a pivoting wind. Darkness descends, and every new winter is met with trepidation, with worry, with fear. Plug in the engine block, insulate the pipes, stack up the firewood, spread the hay. Do the work when the work is required—that’ll see us through to spring.