They return to brood here, year after year, the old congruent clouds. Once, in a Brueghel winter, a farmer and I sailed across Great Gullet Creek on the anger of Flemish winds. I must be obedient, and polite. One day, the oldest farmer packs clothes, food, and candles in a large basket. A surprise tomorrow, he says.
All night gales pound at the walls and windows.
When I wake it's still dark. I watch the farmer light the oil-lamp, dress over his striped pajamas, pull a small cross from his vest, kiss it, and put it back. Wind-rage armors he says, handing me blue varnished wooden shoes. On the table, lit by the oil-lamp, two twigs of licorice wood, a rock of raw sugar, an orange, two chunks of black bread. He cuts the orange in two, shatters the rock with his knife, and stuffs the pieces deep into the orange halves.