It is a short journey, less than three miles. The wooden runners of his sleigh trace familiar lanes edging fields he has worked most of his 73 years. Once these lanes, and the scattering of houses along them, were the measure of his small village.
Today there are no houses.
Each one is a marker where a home once stood. Where whole histories were handed down. Sheroburko pauses by an apple tree at the edge of a rise. Below is a marshy dip with a small stream. Sheroburko planted the tree 40 years ago when his son was young, for fruit and to shade the kitchen door.