One nineteenth century muddy long step up from street level there's a resting chair. The hollow sound of heels on plank could wake an old dog, dreaming of fields and brook trout, just enough to raise its head in recognition and smell its groundhog day. The lazy bell inside the entrance is quiet still, unlike the pattern etched glass chimes hung in breeze's timber that moves the billowing sheets of clouds pinned to a rotating sky.

A locked, bone white door, side window pane view, with a clock's jovial yellow face staring, tells, "Open at nine ante meridiem." Skinny pillars, remanent of ancient Greek palms buttress the wooden canopy and hanging sign advertising, "Barbershop", written in Old English script and painted red on white candy-cane pole. A drop of red lists beyond its circling ribbon illusion, as though the barber's razor had nicked the white neck of the cylinder's turn.

Peering  through a window of yesterday's photographs spoke rust and gears of farm equipment, reabsorbed in time, back-hoed into this earth's grinding gears, twirling in slow motion through a cosmic expanse so vast that only sleep can douse. A bird's cheep-cheep, brings home the tree's leaves and sway of grass while underfoot a Terra firma. Reclined now, behind old growth stands the ready scissors' clip-clip of the cut and trim; back lit by a Super-Nova lamp.

≈ cec