This woman's friends. There's a loom which the woman-friend works.
The man-friend's feeding chickens. At night we sit in a kitchen with an oil lamp strung-around by a live spider's web.
There's some snow lying on the horse pasture. There're antiques nearby stored for sale in the barn stalls and in the barn loft.
There's still hay scattered there. Above, in the isolate crack-shafts of sunlight, old toys and edge-worn mirrors of dead beldames.
There's something about possessions.
There's something about what we have.