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whole journey is a long walk
through woods and over creek stones
into the clearing. The barn stands
at the top of a low hill bathed in sunlight.
"It's a place of pure beauty," I think,
and we come here every summer
as if on a pilgrimage to a shrine.
Inside, sky and clouds peer at us
through holes in the shingles.
The door hangs on one hinge;
several beams have already fallen
from the high temple arch.
The roof sags with gravity's weight
and long vanished snows.
Bits of cracked harness lie about
on the floor amid dung of invisible horses,
their owners dead and forgotten.
Up in the loft is the shell of an old radio,
torn saddles, and broken sparrow skeletons.
From there we crawl out on a crossbeam
that creaks and dangles over a pile of molding hay.
When you hit that stuff a mighty dust cloud
arises, and lungs nearly freeze.
My brother spoke. "We've got a long journey
ahead of us, and nobody comes back."
"After you," I said, and then we jumped.
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