Creaky old barns and an overgrown pasture gate point us through vast tracts of snow-dusted farmlands receding into a broad valley in the heart of Sherman, Connecticut. In the distance, a spine of 1,000-foot mountains straddles the New York border, a rampart of peaks guarding the east entrance into the Taconic Range. For me, though, the most potent element of this piece is one that can only be implied: the frigid, empty quietude of the rolling countryside.

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