Standing on the rocky edge of the farmlands, a cold wind biting at his face, Billy Bob surveyed the land. The not-so distant mountains were jagged, with their snow capped peaks harsh against the sky. The fields around him were small, scattered terraces, stacked against the foothills. Nothing like his old farm.

Back home, the earth was forgiving, ready to be plowed and sowed, even if coaxing the crop was difficult. Here, this land didn’t offer itself easily. The soil was rocky, stubborn. The fields were narrow, some barely more than patches. Rye, oats, peas. He ran his fingers against the coarse earth – it was hard, no give.

Goats grazing near the fields seemed to blend into the land, nearly vanishing into the rocky slopes. They relied on their animals here too, though not like those in the county over. He missed the sheep.

Thinking of his family’s old farm, he recalled how he learned to bend the earth to his will, but he could already tell the land here didn’t work that way. It gives little, but maybe it gives enough. Maybe this wasn’t about taming the earth. Maybe it was about surviving with it.