Not even one Hooting Owl
The inside walls was the remains of an old barn one that was never quiet, he had worked it when he was a kid, he remembered how it sheltered animals, kept the hay dray in the loft, stored the machinery snug against the walls, it had stood with the farm, and family through the good and bad times, through their joys and great efforts, it was their lives, it was part of his life—if the barn could talk and it did talk to Shannon O’Day, so he said, time and again, from one generation to the next— it remembered him, and reminded him, he had worked it as a kid, he’d swear it told him when to feed the pigs, milk the cows, bring the hay down from the loft: day, after day, after day, a tedious job, but no tears did the barn shed, it even told him of the winds mounting up outside upon its walls, to hurry on up, and bring the horses in, and so forth, and the winters it withstood, and the summer’s sun that beat on it, that it endured, now silent, not a friend left, not even the small critters, the pigeons and their cooing had gone, the squirrels left; all its companions left, tomorrow it would be no more, no longer there, even loyal to its owls, it would have to go, go with all its secrets, it has to make room for a highway they told Shannon’s brother, Gus.
“A barn is never quiet until its last day,” Shannon whispered, which was this very day, speaking to the barn, standing in front of whatever it used to be, now dilapidated waiting for the bulldozer; the weathervane on top of the roof, had fallen to the earth, no longer able to indicate the direction of the wind (and there it lay amongst the weeds). “Then the squeaks diminish,” he whispered. He saw that all creatures great and small had long gone, empty as an egg shell, its ground it stood on, now waiting for the new sounds, of cars and tires, the new smells, from their exhaust of carbon dioxide. Not even one hooting owl left.
No: 2613 5-25-2009
The inside walls was the remains of an old barn one that was never quiet, he had worked it when he was a kid, he remembered how it sheltered animals, kept the hay dray in the loft, stored the machinery snug against the walls, it had stood with the farm, and family through the good and bad times, through their joys and great efforts, it was their lives, it was part of his life—if the barn could talk and it did talk to Shannon O’Day, so he said, time and again, from one generation to the next— it remembered him, and reminded him, he had worked it as a kid, he’d swear it told him when to feed the pigs, milk the cows, bring the hay down from the loft: day, after day, after day, a tedious job, but no tears did the barn shed, it even told him of the winds mounting up outside upon its walls, to hurry on up, and bring the horses in, and so forth, and the winters it withstood, and the summer’s sun that beat on it, that it endured, now silent, not a friend left, not even the small critters, the pigeons and their cooing had gone, the squirrels left; all its companions left, tomorrow it would be no more, no longer there, even loyal to its owls, it would have to go, go with all its secrets, it has to make room for a highway they told Shannon’s brother, Gus.
“A barn is never quiet until its last day,” Shannon whispered, which was this very day, speaking to the barn, standing in front of whatever it used to be, now dilapidated waiting for the bulldozer; the weathervane on top of the roof, had fallen to the earth, no longer able to indicate the direction of the wind (and there it lay amongst the weeds). “Then the squeaks diminish,” he whispered. He saw that all creatures great and small had long gone, empty as an egg shell, its ground it stood on, now waiting for the new sounds, of cars and tires, the new smells, from their exhaust of carbon dioxide. Not even one hooting owl left.
No: 2613 5-25-2009
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