It was to last a few scant days, but the days turned into months.
The sun had deserted us, left us to the mercy of the storm. Father Winter continued
to scream down our chimney, rattle our windows, tear at our rooftop, and coat trees
and crops in thick icy armor.
Billy had tried to make it into town today, but the horse became lame.
Our food source is low, only three taters in our bin.
Dust in our cupboards. An ache in our bellies.
Tomorrow we shall dine on our horse.