A light slant snow dragging the fields, a counterwind where the edges of the barn frayed worlds, blurred outside in. Such a hard ride to bloodlet, blankness, the stalls' stone floors hosed out, yet damp, the urine reek not quite muffled with fresh hay, trough water still giving back lantern light like ponds at nightfall.
Sheep lay steaming, cloud in cloud.
The barn cat slept among last summer's lambs, black faced, apart, relieved of their mothers. We made our way, my dogs and I, to say hello to the Yorkshire sow named Kora, who heaved herself up to greet us, let the dogs lick her oiled snout smeared with feed while I scratched her forehead. Kora of the swineherds fallen with Persephone, perhaps in hell a bride's only company. Days her smell stayed with us. The last time we saw her the plaque bearing her name was gone.