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Huddled close on bales of frosted hay,
we bump our way out into the field,
the tractor and our noses chuffing steam,
the tree farmer, blue-lipped and toothless,
saying something we cannot hear.
Everywhere, rows of spruce, fir, Scotch pine
all decorated with what morning flurries
left behind. A good one in every row,
but we urge the farmer to drive a bit further,
refusing to cut short the ride that roots us
to one another on this cold, jouncing flatbed,
living symbols of a season's simple joy.