A few local neighbors held steaming paper cups of coffee from the gas station in town.

The steam curled up and vanished in the wind.

The sky over Kearney was a flat, bruised gray.

There was no sun to cut the chill.

I watched a rusted farm truck pull off the county road and park along the deep ditch.

A man got out and slammed the heavy metal door.

The sound cracked like a rifle shot across the open pasture.

It was the last Saturday in March, and winter refused to let go of the land.