The elderly poet

waves his flashlight

clearing a path, as it

were, ahead of him

in the Nebraska cold.

And sheep and cattle

are sleeping in barns

some dark distance

from the roadside.

A flag whips against

a stiff winter wind.

Silos. Old houses.

The yellow squares

of crossbarred windows

like wee beacons

in the vast night,

proclaiming to any

solitary walker:

here is warmth, safety

and domesticity;

here, a kitchen and coffee

and buttered toast.