Busty Dusty Barn !!hot!! Today

Inside, it’s cathedral-dim. The air smells of dried sweat from horses long gone, of harness leather and creosote, of clover cured too wet one August. A wooden rake handle leans in a corner. An ancient McCormick Deering binder sleeps under a quilt of cobwebs. Dust motes drift across a shaft of gold light like tiny, slow planets.

The barn leans a little to the east, as if listening for something. Her tin roof is scored with rust and the skid marks of generations of barn cats. Swallows pour from her cupola each dawn like a shaken pepper shaker. busty dusty barn

Out past the last leaning fence post, where the gravel road gives up trying and turns to little more than a deer trail, stands the Busty Dusty Barn. Inside, it’s cathedral-dim