Monet.

 The occasional requisition of mimes notwithstanding, it was a quiet life and Volkmer found a calm and disciplined pleasure in it. It was cold in that part of the country, but he was not unaccustomed to that. The wide prairie would stretch gold and green in the summers. The tall grasses would sway and bend on the hot breezes and there would be a horizon, but no edge to the world really. The winters were positively different, but beautiful in their own way. The earth would become dense with snow and all but silent. On those white mornings he would often stand on the wood porch of his small house by the iced up river and feel as though he were gazing out into one of Monet’s haystack paintings, where even light was made somehow heavy and slow by the cold. He would watch patiently and no matter how slowly the shadows moved, he could hear even them crunching the frozen grass. Those were his favorite mornings. 

 .
.
.