The snow in the parking lot was pristine. The shades were closed in the windows of the old brick house that hides behind a squarely trimmed and balding privet hedge. Piles of cut multiflora rose were made brittle in the winter sun, having months ago been separated from their roots. Their removal making way for swamp white oaks and mountain mint.
Vultures took flight reluctantly and soared on wobbly wings as I crossed the thawing field. I, too, explored the white tailed deer carcass, and added my prints to the weeds surrounding this well traveled path worn by scavengers and the curious.
While I had been tapping away on an unchanging keyboard winter-long, bound to a glowing screen by tasks and a low clearance vehicle, all had been at their own work.