In this picture is a bale of hay. Another, smaller, lies to its right, some ways away. Dead grasses lie before it. The brown specks of Autumn lie behind. The waning sun shines upon it all and grants this place life and being. A shadow is cast from this bale but it can not reach the fence on which you sit nor darken the thing I seek. The sun sets and Fall approaches, and it will endure many years.
Without this picture is another. It is cold, lifeless. The dead winter.
But there is no other picture, and, in this, is why sunshine can be seen breaking forth from the frame, does strike my face, and warms again my heart to hope.