another souvenir from the barn

the barn was there, it was a dream of course, the barn was torn down long ago to make souvenir birdhouses to hang on trees throughout the country, reminding us that after many years it is still useful, the barn I mean, not the memories

the full moon shone bright illuminating the tin covered wood, the green sandpaper shingles, in my dream still protecting the shell of the barn, now their roughness is known by birds everywhere contemplating the cold winter winds on birdhouse roofs

I opened the top half of the barn door, wood smooth from bare hands and winter gloves, and looked in, the swallows no longer built nests in the rafters, they must be nesting elsewhere, maybe they followed the cracked wood they warmed their chicks under in the cool spring

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