"You still recall, sometimes, the old barn on your great-grandfather's farm, a place you visited once, and went into, all alone, while the grown-ups sat and talked in the house.
It was empty, or almost. Wisps of hay covered the floor, and some wasps sang at the windows, and maybe there was a strange fluttering bird high above, disturbed, hoo-ing a little and staring down from a messy ledge with wild, binocular eyes."
~ From Flare, a poem by Mary Oliver
