The boat house is deserted. The lake frozen solid and people ice fish and walk across it.
It is a winter’s tale
That the snow blind twilight ferries over the lakes
And floating fields from the farm in the cup of the vales,
Gliding windless through the hand folded flakes,
The pale breath of cattle at the stealthy sail,
An excerpt of a A Winter’s Tale by Dylan Thomas aptly fits the landscape of frozen fields and lakes here in a Midwestern winter.