The plowed potato fields lie sleeping under the snow, soaking up moisture in corduroy ridges. When the plows open the fields in March, dirt takes flight in spring’s rushing winds. Summer’s irrigated crops hold the dirt in place, growing food, barley for beer, canola for oil, clover for the honey bees, hay for stock, white, purple and pink blooming potato plants. By fall, dirt, water and sunlight have done their job once more. The potatoes are harvested, the barley is cut, the hay is baled. The trees along the Rio Grande summon all that remains of summer’s light and release it in the gold of cottonwood and aspen leaves. The wind returns, sweeping the old year away. Behind it, snow.