The barn sits in the high weeds, behind the house, between the small Presbyterian church and the house.  It is a red barn, like most barns. There’s an old horse in there.  He stands inside, chewing the grass that comes up over the bottom door.  The horse came into life here, blood everywhere.  He grew tall and strong, beautiful, and rode soft as black paint across the fields.

Behind the horse is the biggest cobweb in the county, but no one knows it yet.  A man could get caught, his whole body could hang, on that cobweb.  It shines diamonds in the mornings and the higher and whiter the sun gets, the more it vanishes against the wall.

And up above is a dusty loft — scattered hay, a place to kiss and roll around and want and wait and still and always want.  The loft window looks at the church.  When the sun sets, the church goes from white to dusty pink and when the last bit of light is left, the church can go to deep red, as red as the barn, redder even and then all is perfectly silent, and another day has passed.