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Whisper

Whisper Barnlife I walked the abandoned farm Early that Sunday that rose frozen and saw the gray barn out of winter's ground. It stood silent, hollow as promises, expectant as that moment of mystery before light, before you and me. I imagined the life it once had; holding cows crowded at feeder troughs, warmed by their sour breath steaming on cold nights. I imagined how it would be to depend on life from without Too shaped by the geography of people, you cross over the small hill onto hard fields of their voices as I swung barn doors hung on hinges, rusted brown. Then standing, at just that point beyond the sound saying, "This way. This way," until you reach the woods of entrance and exit, I realized the air was both coming and going as you and I have come and gone. -Rey Ford and sit on mossy dirt. You watch raindrops run out over the underbrush, the wind ripple leaves pendent between thin limbs. You hear the whisper of the white pine's needle dance as it bows of the forest. to the fragile breath You feel the cool air against your cheek and walk on through the woods making no sounds louder than those around you. -Rey Ford http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Appalachian Review University of North Carolina Press

Whisper

Appalachian Review , Volume 18 (1) – Jan 8, 1990

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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
Copyright
Copyright © Berea College
ISSN
1940-5081
Publisher site
See Article on Publisher Site

Abstract

Barnlife I walked the abandoned farm Early that Sunday that rose frozen and saw the gray barn out of winter's ground. It stood silent, hollow as promises, expectant as that moment of mystery before light, before you and me. I imagined the life it once had; holding cows crowded at feeder troughs, warmed by their sour breath steaming on cold nights. I imagined how it would be to depend on life from without Too shaped by the geography of people, you cross over the small hill onto hard fields of their voices as I swung barn doors hung on hinges, rusted brown. Then standing, at just that point beyond the sound saying, "This way. This way," until you reach the woods of entrance and exit, I realized the air was both coming and going as you and I have come and gone. -Rey Ford and sit on mossy dirt. You watch raindrops run out over the underbrush, the wind ripple leaves pendent between thin limbs. You hear the whisper of the white pine's needle dance as it bows of the forest. to the fragile breath You feel the cool air against your cheek and walk on through the woods making no sounds louder than those around you. -Rey Ford

Journal

Appalachian ReviewUniversity of North Carolina Press

Published: Jan 8, 1990

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