Driving through the quiet farms, I am always drawn to the magic of the winter pasture, an eerily beautiful, cold and swept place, waiting to return to busy and smelly and productive life. The snow sparkles in the increasingly bitter cold, the wind sweeps the pasture smooth, and the drifting snow suggests a world that stops and gathers itself, unlike the rest of our increasingly frantic, always busy, always communicative culture. Much worse cold is coming this weekend, and I am eager to be out walking in it, to capture the beautiful barrenness and strength of the winter pasture.