_             _This far out of town no one tracks the snow. In places, the stubble from the harvested corn spikes through. It looks as though some old document has been torn away at the edge where it was long creased.
_              _Mice tunnel the fields to get at the kernels. Hawks gyre when the squalls clear. Sometimes you’ll see the black barn cat sitting and listening to the mice in their icy labyrinth. He’s like a solitary period on an otherwise blank sheet.
_             _If you look for long enough you’ll see it, not the white but the blue.