Holy Tornado

To see the soul of your comrade listen carefully to his music.

Wednesday, October 12, 2005

THE OLD BARN

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She was built at a time when horse drawn wagons hauled the hay. Her walls were tight and strong. She was a warm abode for cattle to rest at night, and a haven from the freezing winter storms.
She sheltered her friends as they labored to bring their young into the world and her mangers held the sweet golden hay they craved.
Field mice made little homes of hay in her dark corners and Sparrows built nests in the rafters while the cats raised their litters in the haymow.

For over a hundred years she stood, a place of warmth and comfort, a
place of rest and new life.
Dependable year after year, and a faithful friend to her inhabitants, she grew to know each of her family, and watched the generations come and leave.

Then one day, they were all gone. The cattle, the sparrows, even the mice.
Alone she stands, her faded fortress a reminder of long past days, when life thrived within the safety of her walls.
Her planks now weatherworn and shrunken, allow the winds and streaks of sunlight to enter her lonely sanctuary.

The farmers long abandon hand cultivator leans lopsidedly against the rotted boards of the wall with a coat of cobwebs, heavy with dust, draped from handle to handle.
The grass grows tall around her skirt, and brambles climb to the eaves reaching for the sun.

At night the bats still seek shelter under her badly decaying roof, and Mr. Moon casts a lonley glow over her forlorn body.
She served well through the many generations, now she rests, her purpose fufilled.

On hot summer days, I close my eyes and hear the long silent, laughing voices of the children as they run in the grassy meadow, "tag, you're it!" I see the short legged Scotty pup barking along side them, long tail wagging happily.
I hear the snapping of dried ground vetch pods as they explode in the hot sun, casting seed for next years crop.
The constant drone of honeybees on the blackberry blossoms, and the Robin calling her young to the cherry tree, is background music as the clanking of cowbells rings through the field, and is carried to me on the scent of fresh mown hay.

Memories, how sweet they linger~~~