Wading In Through Tall Grass

The old man must be dead (whoever he was) to let everything go to seed like that. Parking my ‘94 sedan I put my day’s prescribed itinerary and drive aside for a moment to work my way through the wilted wire fence toward an abandoned old barn. Tall grass sizzled at my waist as I approached and the tall trees confabbed – nudging each other with swaying limbs and leafy whispers. Grasshoppers zigged and zagged, until I at last I had become a farm boy again, not too smart for my britches, but a welcome stranger wading in from the roadside – with a hand to touch and an ear to lend to these leaning old walls should they have anything to share.