A barn

    Amidst dancing foxtail weeds on a forgotten hill sat a barn, its watchful gaze fixed to a distant town.  Longing shadows cast by a falling sun reached eastward towards the untouchable buildings.  Many unremembered things- a tractor, a combine, a Ford pick-up, and others in the yard slept in tombs of rust.  Double doors with cracked and peeling paint climbed upwards, ajar and waving when caught by the breeze.  Vines grew as tentacles over the ancient structure’s rear.  A weather vane depicting a rooster whose body was now pitted and nearly eaten through with age resisted its purpose, its base having grown sturdy with grime.  The barn sat watching, with quiet attention, the distant town.

    Outside their homes, children played while adults tended to end of day tasks.  No one looked towards the sunset, towards the dancing weeds and abandoned things set so far aloft.  Still the barn stood, its doors waving to anyone who might cast a westward glance.  One child, having lost the grip of his basket ball, ran to retrieve it from the street.  He picked it up and in doing so took a moments notice of the far away building.  Without much pause he ran back to his game, turning his back to the glare.

    A stirring in the barn.  Shutters bounced, knocking against their frames.  The doors swayed more rapidly.  The weather vane, being finally coaxed to move, creaked in protest.  Fully opened doors banged dust from their cracks and crevasses against wooden walls.  Full view of the town was now visible from within.  As vibrations spread through aged wood and nails, damp straw dripped from the lofts, small dust cyclones twisted along the ground chaotically,  and dirt poured in streams from the rafters.

    Foxtail weeds danced just as before.  Their golden red tops swaying left to right, forward and back in the breeze.

    The vines pulled in their slow unnoticeable way towards the darkness of the woods.  Back to earth from whence all things come and must return.  They swallowed at the barn, relentless in their pursuit.  Back to earth, to be undone and soon reborn.  The barn shook, as its doors and shudders slapped violently.  The weather vane spun uncontrollably.  Inside, the wind came in pulses, in breaths. 

    Foxtail weeds danced, unconcerned with the goings-on of the barn and its struggle with the woods. 

    Moments later when the shaking stopped, the barn rested, and the doors stood only somewhat ajar.  The town with its many people was just visible through the crack as the waning light continued to degrade.  A sense of pulsing still lingered.  Such pretty things, carefully placed in their proper places, and with great care were once kept here.  No more.  There was, however, hope of what tomorrow might bring.