I’ve come to love the winter pasture. Mostly, I know it by pulling the truck over, hauling out my camera and walking around a bit. Sometimes I walk a bit. The gates and wires and fences – on real farms, usually homemade and stark – look expectant, ready for the Spring. The pastures are snowfields, smooth and windblown and vast, the horizon between the ground and sky fused. I love pasture gates. They seem to be the most mundane fixtures, yet they are somehow dramatic.