T’s Place in December

The rain

That lashed at the metal barn roof

Like violent storm waves

And slithered through nail holes and cracks

To drip and splat and splush

On the rotting floor below

Eases now,

And the sodden forest

Catches a shard of winter sun.

Fence posts stagger down the hill,

Their plastic conductors ajar.

A serpent of fencing wire

Crawls over mossy rocks and intertwines

With leafless lichen-coated branches.

There’s a heavy stillness in the forest.

The muted hoot of an owl

And the shrill scream

Of the red tailed hawk

Startle old ghosts.

Sheep panels and rabbit hutches

Rusting duck cages and milk buckets

Clutter the north corner

And the farmer’s cobweb-laced tractor rests

Under sagging eves,

Her worn leather gloves tossed idly

On the chassis…ready

And still the aroma of birth and death and manure and lanolin

Lingers,

Perplexing sounds and vague shadows

Remind me to notice

Just notice

This.