Only a season ago, penned denizens would rise to the same sight that wakes current eyes, but, now, in their stead, lies a field of ice—gracing rather than grazing the dead. As their shepherd—filled with brew and fed by flitch—stands warmthfully welcomed to the day, pointed pang pulls memories, leading to lonesome’s profound-yet-fleeting wish: one more squeal in lieu of morning’s meal. ; )