I look to the west at some of the outbuildings. They still stand strong after many years of service to the family that originally homesteaded this land, joined now by a silver quonset and a trio of silver granaries.
Then I turn my gaze toward the south where snow still covers the quarter-section of land. In a few months wheat will be growing on that land that now looks so barren.
As I walk back toward the house I find myself breathing deeply as I take in the crisp morning air. It feeds a part of me that has been starving for something lately.
Behind the house is the area which is reserved for garden. A homemade greenhouse stands nearby just waiting for a fresh batch of seedlings to fill it's shelves. An old outhouse, no longer used, adds character to the space.
As I hear the voice of the land whisper to me I realize that there is no other sound. There is no other sound. It is still and absolutely silent this morning, and it is that silence that allows me to hear the voice of the land.