Jill e-mailed me just yesterday:

      the weather’s dry; so, early starts

      for Marsh to irrigate—

            an icy play down by the creek

            in freezing cold and wet and dark

            to fetch the old machine.

The oats are growing well, though, Jake:

      we baled six acres Friday last—

            a bright and sunny day.
This morning: fog, as thick as thieves.

      The cats lie stricken on the carpet

      by the glass door, east-

      ward clustered, peering: where’s the day?

I’m waiting, too, with washing; tasked

to dart out at first ray.

      Beyond, the tractor lectures me—

      a spectral putter; there goes Marsh:

      he starts up, disappears.