Description: place, person, feeling, sound

Jeff Meller

24 Oct. 13

172; 113; 91; 46 words

Place – Hay Barn

I push back gently the creaky barn doors on ancient, rusty hinges. Some screws are missing from each hinge and the doors hang crookedly.

After the glare of the hot August afternoon, the dark barn interior is impenetrable until my eyes adjust. Rain taps lightly on the corroded metal roof.

I back in the wagon and unload the hay.

When finished I sprawl on my back, limp and sweating. Spears of straw stick in my back like needles in a voodoo doll. But I’m too tired to move.

Shafts of sunlight filter between cracks in the shrinking barnboard siding, revealing motes pirouetting in the thick, dusty air.   Countless hay seasons infuse the air: today’s fragrant harvest, last year’s fully dry crop, the pungent reek of moldy older seasons.

Now the rain dances raucously on the roof. Haying is done for the day.

Person – Newspaper man

“Hello,” sings the newspaper man cheerily in an indeterminate African accent piercing the crisp, pre-dawn gloom. Only his left arm is visible in a worn sweater sleeve leaning out the window of an SUV and a flash of white smile reflected from the ceiling light in an otherwise dark interior.

“Good morning,” I shout in a hoarse whisper, to not disturb the neighbors, from the porch in my cozy pajamas, slippers and fleece vest.

We wave goodbye to each other as the newspaper man speeds on his rounds, then home to get his children off to school, and on to his second job, while I, drinking coffee by the fire, read my paper.

Feeling – Contentment

Autumn in the forest, imbibing the gentle fragrance of desiccating leaves, parched and shriveled.

Noiseless, save the intermittent sound when a detached leaf nestles on the ground amongst its sisters and brothers for a winter’s rest.

Shuffling when walking would do, but would not be half so much fun. Furrowing a bow wave of dried leaves in front, leaving a wake of vermilion maple, golden birch, maroon beech behind.

Ten million years of evolution refines our senses to revel in the creation of 300 million foliage seasons for one autumn afternoon.

Sound - Ice

A fierce nighttime wind shattered the ice on the pond into slivers. In the morning these thousands of floating icicles clinked together sounding like an orchestra of crystal chandeliers swaying in the wind as it lapped the shards against the shore.

- 30 -

Sources:

None.