The Farm | Part II

February 26th

The creek swelled overnight, its water reflecting the old barn like a promise kept forever. I stood at the edge this morning, watching leafless branches that match well with the slate sky. Morse code I’m still learning to translate.

My father’s barn leans a little more each winter, the weathered boards faded to the color of forgotten photographs, the hollowed mouth whispering stories of seasons past when tobacco hung from the rafters and lambs were born on cold concrete floors. I remember those lambs.. and those floors. 

 Today, three geese drifted on the water, their white bodies glowing like scattered prayer cards against the dark creek. I collected a feather by the fence post and added it to the jar on my windowsill. It feels like fleeting grace. 

 The fields lie patient in their winter sleep, waiting for hands, seed, and faith. Three things I try my hardest to cling to as February stretches its gray limbs over me. I think of how many eyes have gazed at this barn from this spot, how many boots have left their mark along the muddy bank, how many hearts have harbored this same quiet ache at beauty that refuses to apologize for dying. Tonight, I’ll play my harmonica on the porch, and I will let the notes drift across the water to where the old barn still stands somehow. Together, we keep watch over what remains, over what endures.