![]() ![]() You could have stayed there forever, a small child in a corner, on the last raft of hay, dazzled by so much space that seemed empty, but wasn’t. ![]() Mostly, though, it was restful and secret, the roof high up and arched, the boards unpainted and plain. Mostly, though, it smelled of milk, and the patience of animals the give-offs of the body were still in the air, a vague ammonia, not unpleasant. Wisps of hay covered the floor, and some wasps sang at the windows, and maybe there was a strange fluttering bird high above, disturbed, hoo-ing a little and staring down from a messy ledge with wild, binocular eyes. You still recall, sometimes, the old barn on your great-grandfather’s farm, a place you visited once, and went into, all alone, while the grownups sat and talked in the house. It is not the mockingbird who, in his own cadence,įrom the branches of the catalpa that are thick with blossoms, Or the trees, or the beetle burrowing into the earth It is not the blue helmet of the sky afterward, ![]() It is not the rain falling out of the purse of God Which is flaring all over the eastern sky ![]()
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