It's like those great John Ford movies,
The door frame opening to endless sky.
You know, like the one in "The Seekers,"
Except in this case, you're on the outside.

The field is swept with wind, the sky pristine,
And the barn roof?  Why it's covered in snow.
Weird, but brilliant in the afternoon light.
The door is ajar.  Hello.

So you step past the threshold to the smell,
A mixture of hay, dung, sweat and aged leather.
The walls are blanketed in tools.
Hand saws, hammers, the occasional piece of rope.

In the center sits a rusting John Deer.
With a blown front tire, and an oil can next to it.
Inexplicably, in the corner, beneath a working Coke machine,
A little girl sings to herself.

Wait, we are not over yet.
Up in the rafters, there he is, that grey barn owl.
Look! He twists his neck at the sound and blinks.
He sees everything.

I am stepping backwards now.
Out of the picture frame and into the kitchen.
I  think I need to get out of these snowy clothes,
And into something more comfortable.