The Red Paint Flaking Free
In this old barn, something almost remembered. In the faded corn powder and littered straw; boards creaking underfoot, between the rafters and soft dirt below – shafts of illumined dust shimmering. Yes, something like a spirit maybe, only hidden in the very frame and footprint of the place, red paint flaking free, rotted tires within, and mouse nests – lots of mouse nest in the air.
Upon bundled lengths of bailing 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. And in the narrow pens and wooden ways, burnished smooth by generations of hide and hand, is in this place stabled in silence, even now, something – that with a lingering stroke over these course dusty shelves responds.