"But it is not." He points to the far bank where deer are grazing, and then closer where ducks are swimming where the ice is broken in the shallows. "It is seeming with life. If I were to paint a wasteland, it would be a dying field. A dust bowl. There is nothing so tragic as a field that can't be plowed."

Beat.

Then he scratches his nose and looks abashed. "Ah. Sorry. You were a poet?"