The field in winter was all stubble,
brown and cut down, low and plain.
No big speech in it.
No red barn picture look.
Just frozen ground,
a ditch gone hard,
weeds with frost on them,
and fence posts leaning like old men
who knew a good bit and said less.
I liked it better than summer sometimes.
Summer tries too much.
Winter lets things stand there
and take the weather.
A crow crossed over it
black and slow.
That was enough to make the whole field
look made on purpose.