It's early morning and I'm standing in our yard watching the dawn come up. Pale, fingers poke through the trees like a pink glove and point towards the stables. Two nodding heads make soft, wickering noises as I approach.

[More:]

I feed and rug the ponies and turn them out into the near paddock then move on to the cows. Usually there are two of us, today I'm alone. Carting straw and hay for the beast makes me sweat, but it is good to be part of this endless round of turning seasons.

The smell of good hay has trapped the echoes of long summer days and as I spread the bright straw I remember mist and fat blackberries and the turning of the year. I think how thin the thread that binds the present to the past and the future is even more nebulous, a mere snails trail away.

The day is full bright now and sun is flooding the yard. It's warmer than of late, could there be a hint of spring in the air?