Torn shingles scitter across the dirt.
Windows are either boarded over or wide open to allow jets of air to flush out 100 years of ag commerce.
The only trace of red is inside where the wall meets the barn roof.
But back in the day... things around here were hopping.
Horse - drawn implements line the west wall next to the drive-thru. We didn't call it that back then of course, but we should have.
Upstairs is where we kept the hay we made when the sun shines. There are only a couple of bales left. The grass is turning green. We survived another winter.
Stalls line either side of a graveled cement walk. Cows wait patiently for milking chewing grass.
The youngsters carry buckets of milk to the tank.
Doors bang shut, get pulled open, slam again.
Mom shouts from the house, "Time to eat."
A southwest wind blows flecks of straw revealing some crudely made iron tools.
Rusting, tired, fading away in sight of the road.
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