Winter on the farm, the landscape spreads out before me a sheet of white tundra, pools of black mud and dead brown foliage. It's impossible to stray too far back, the snow is waist deep. The twins and I build forts under the big yellow sun that hangs alone in the cold blue sky.Its solitary presence escalates the feeling of the colds isolating numbness. We make game of tracking the prints of rabbits and other wildlife. A sighting of deer through the wiry web of branches is a majestic privelage, though a dreaded one if seen left for dead by the side of the road. When the boys get too cold to continue playing outside, they go indoors. I remain , the snow is falling and I lie down allowing my mouth to fill with the cascading flakes , they seemingly hesitate to melt as they descend in patterns and slide in droplets off my red cheeks. I shut my eyes and the play of light shifts in kaliedescope patterns. I am Eskimo Ophelia floating beneath the glare of the hot sun transported in a frigid silence, the sky an expanse of possibilities. I embrace this solitude, nature is my shrine as I lie here under the firmament. Getting up from the snow I notice one of the neighbours bulls from a distance I climb the fence and the bull spots me, I might aswll be a red flag in my bright orange snow suit. I make haste to get back over the fence but my snowpants get caught in a bit of wire that is twisted into a knot that points up towards the sky. After a cursed struggle I finally free myself from the the catch of wire and make it back to safety but not without tearing my pants. The white polyfill fibre sticking out and exposed making my new orange snowsuit look old.