To move into it again, as it was, the cows rattling in black stalls, lowing beneath the wind, the elm against the barn, thrashing there as shadow, all loose boards creaking, the moon drawn, pushed rolling white by wind and fat, bone white snow-and-flour white white white moving into the puddle by the lilacs, whiter there, rippling white beneath dark green twisting petals. To be silvered by her as the barn, the grass, the manure pile, the lilacs, to look again at the reflection of her huge eye in water. |