Smoke.

 Accelerating past a snowbound fence with dark lumps of cattle in
the field beyond munching hay strewn for them, I flash by a ploughed
driveway, evergreen forest behind the house, where from the chimney
lifts a plume of smoke
                       as the candied scent of burning stovewood fills
the truck's cab for a second or two
                    like a pang of how much I want to be four hours
away, opening the draft, scrunching paper and kindling into the firebox,
lighting the match
                                 so anyone who drives down the back road
will see somebody in that place is at home.