Exceptional fo' quats Uncle Rob's Barn by LIJ Red

The hands that drove the nails are dead these many restless, fleeting years. The very way of life has fled hard life for which were shed no tears. The trees caress the rusty tin and weeds lean in upon the sills I try to hear them once again lost voices in these haunted hills. But no, the barn's a landmark now a gravestone for those older days in its hall lies a rusting plow a symbol of departed ways. She skips around, that child of mine to her this walk's all fun and games. The barn that rots now in the pine was built by men--I knew their names.

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