Another Time

The Stillness of Winter

The tractor has been sitting there long enough to stop feeling temporary. Rust has settled into the metal. The tires no longer look capable of moving it anywhere. Snow gathers around its base as if it belongs there now, part of the field rather than something left behind.

It’s easy to imagine what this place once looked like when the tractor was working. The field cleared. The ground open. Someone nearby, paying attention to weather and daylight, moving with the season instead of waiting it out. The machine wasn’t an object to be noticed then. It was just doing its job.

Standing there in early February, it’s hard not to think ahead as well. The snow will thin. The field will soften. Color will return slowly, without announcement. This moment—cold, quiet, paused—will give way to another one just as ordinary.

“Another time” holds both directions at once. What has passed, and what hasn’t arrived yet. The tractor doesn’t lean toward either. It simply stays where it is, unconcerned with what comes next.

Groundhog Day sits in that same in-between space. Winter isn’t finished, but it’s no longer new. The days are beginning to stretch. The idea of warmth feels possible again, even if the ground hasn’t caught up yet.

Nothing in the field suggests hurry. The tractor waits. The snow holds. Time moves the way it always does—without checking whether we’re ready for it.

Talk soon…

G