The frost-mutilated grass slips down the hill just to break into separate planes that flow into even steeper inclines. Charcoal asphalt interrupts the decaying sod leading to a rundown, poetic structure. Inside, bales of hay snuggle together out of the cold, damp weather, surrounded by tightly arranged wood piles. Left to endure the environment are remnants of once cutting-edge agricultural technology, now thrown to the past. The throne of an ancient tractor presides over its kingdom, still proud of its humble home. Part of an old plow resides next to a lean-to that has begun to lean too far. All of this is surrounded by never-ending flakes falling quickly from the sky, their white brightened by the forest green backdrop of surrounding pines. This is Vermont.