Every once in a while, there comes a perfect blue day dusted with wisps of high drifting cloud like cotton. It is cold out here, but if she is warmly dressed and out of the wind, one can almost believe it is summer for a moment or two.
Then the wind asserts its primacy and goes rampaging across the tin roof, making the lightening rods on its summit shiver and sway. It comes in at doors and windows without invitation, and it moans through every crack in the weathered barn walls. One suddenly remembers it is November.
The barn has been standing since the 1800s though, and she is not fazed by late autumn and early winter blusterings. Her foundations are local granite, and her bones are cedar timbers several feet in diameter. Snug and firm on her Lanark hill, she patiently watches the clouds roll by, conversing with the impetuous wind in all its madcap oscillating moods and fancies. I wonder what they are saying.
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