Winter Idyl

It’s the height of summer. I’m digging rocks out of the barnyard. The deerflies are ferocious. Fabric covers every inch of my body except my face and is saturated with sweat. I stomp the blade of the shovel under a rock erupting through the sod and pry. The ash handle snaps in two.

A cloud passes overhead. There are thousands of things to do today, millions of moments. The flies continue circling. The rock laughs at me. I laugh, too, and get down on my knees and work at it with the shaft of the shovel and find that it’s much, much bigger than I had imagined.

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