The farm is through wood some ways away. Held by a single chain is

 

the Dog of the Marshes and his bark over the night,

 

but this porch is safe. The house of women. In the widening horizon, an aura of thunder, that farm dog echoes off metal lanterns and some ice that was once the lake.

 

What the women bake has no portend. I stir just like the rest,

 

and have cast off all skins to make curtains that never cover all the edges of the white window light. The house has been cleaned from the inside. We bodies wait for more daylight air to set the tables.

 

What the hanging man needs

 

out in that forest

 

is just some more time. We have become the old women

 

but our skin just happened. Everything just happened,

 

my God the thunder, we cry, outside the water pump breaking and all gashes of ice for lighting.