Barn

In an old barn is something almost remembered. In the faded corn powder and littered straw, boards creaking underfoot; between the rafters and soft dirt below – something.

Only it has hidden in the very frame and foundation of the place, red paint flaking outside, rotted tires within; and mouse nests – lots of mouse nest in the air.

Upon bundled lengths of baling wire and home-fashioned tools on nails hung, rusted (and staining my fingers for looking) I am turned; like the light, deflected and dull; by the stubborn silver corrugated tin above.

In the narrow pens and wooden ways, burnished smooth by generations of hide and hand, is in this place stabled in silence, something. That with a lingering stroke over these course dusty shelves, I find myself again searching.