The Shortest Day on a Northern Farm

5:10 a.m.

The shortest day begins before the house does. The yard is black, the snow a dim blue where the porch light reaches it. The kitchen window goes yellow; the wood stove ticks as the cold settles into the pipe. A chunk of oak goes into the firebox, and the stove takes it with a sound like a long breath. Boots cross the porch, then the packed path to the barn, and the milk house door opens on its own weight of cold. Inside, the cows stand steaming in their stanchions, their breath silver in the bulb-light. The vacuum pump groans up to pitch, and the first milk comes down the line. Frost feathers the milk house glass from the inside.

7:05 a.m.

Seven in the morning, and the light is only a greyness in the east. The first milking is half done. Machines pulse on the stanchions; the milk runs through glass and into the bulk tank, which hums against the milk house wall and holds what the cows have given. The milk house is the coldest room on the place; the milk in the lines is warm, and the two meet in a steam that rolls along the ceiling. In the feed room the ration smells of grain and molasses. The barn radio carries the farm report from somewhere downstate. The farmer's boots leave dark prints on the packed aisle. The cows turn their heads to the feed, and their breath hangs between the rows, a cloud that does not rise.

7:40 a.m.

Light after seven. It comes slowly, as if the sun were not convinced. The black line of the woodlot turns blue, then grey, then becomes separate trees. The sun rises behind the barn, a pale disc through the cloud, and for a few minutes the snow takes color — the yard goes pink, then orange, then flat white. Ice-glazed windows on the chicken coop catch the color and throw it back. The shadow of the silo stretches halfway across the dooryard. The farmer leans in the milk house doorway with a thermos while the frost steams off the barn roof, and by the time the thermos is empty the frost is gone.

9:15 a.m.

The sun is up but sitting low over the southeast, throwing long shadows that angle northwest across the snow. The yard is at work now. The tractor idles at the corner of the barn, white exhaust hanging in the cold, its block heater cord uncoiled and laid over the fender. The day's wood is split and stacked by the kitchen door; the axe is frozen into the chopping block. In the chicken coop a bulb burns on a timer, holding out against the short day, and the hens move under it without conviction. The stock tank in the yard hums with its heater, keeping a dark hole of water open in the ice. The fence posts throw shadows that reach almost to the road.

11:40 a.m.

Almost noon, and the sun has made its one climb of the day. It hangs over the south tree line, as high as it will get in December, which is not high. The barn's shadow points straight north, still longer than the barn. The dooryard is at its brightest, and still the light comes in sideways, raking the snow in the hayfield. The kitchen window steams; the noon meal is eaten under the lights. The mail truck makes its run down the road, and the flag on the mailbox drops. The drips from the barn roof have stopped mid-fall, and the icicles hold the shape of yesterday's thaw.

1:45 p.m.

By early afternoon the day has turned. The sun has crossed its low peak and begun the slide down the west. The light goes amber, then gold, then long and level. Every rise in the snow carries a shadow on its eastern side. The cold comes back before the dark does, a thin edge under the skin of the afternoon. The second round of chores starts: water hauled, eggs gathered, the hens shut in before the dark gets in. The evening milking is prepared, the milk house washed, the lines checked. The silo stands in the level light, its blue shadow running out across the dooryard.

3:15 p.m.

The light leaves in stages. The western sky has gone from gold to grey; the sun is down behind the tree line, though a band of pale orange still sits on the horizon. The yard light clicks on, a white cone over the snow. The evening milking is underway: the barn windows glow, and the compressor, the hoses, and the steady breath of the cows run behind the walls. The dark comes up out of the ground before the sky has given up all its color. The yard light throws its white circle on the snow, and beyond the circle the drifts have gone blue.

4:40 p.m.

Before five, and the dark is complete. The evening milking is done; the milk house has been washed down and the tank lid shut. The last of the milk has been set to cool. The hens are closed in, the wood is in the box, and the house windows are yellow against the yard. The yard light hums, and the stars are out, hard in the cold air. The wind has died, and the cold has settled in to stay. The barn door is pulled to and the latch dropped. The shortest day lies below the west hill now, and the farm is dark before five.