[Soaring Feather]

Hello!!


Absolutely beautiful. Oh what memories your poem stirs in me.

As a child, I lived on a small farm, my grandmothers. We made hay using pitch forks. When the wagons rolled into the barn all the kids got on high beams and stomped down the hay. The heat, the light rays beaming through the barn boards, the smells of the new dry hay, heaps of it. Down we would jump, mother admonsihing us to look before we leaped-look for pitch forks in the haymow.

Here's the salt, mother would say, spread it around very well now. Thirst, I would be so thirsty from eating the salt, and the hay dust flying around the barn. My brothers and me leaping like young frogs in the hay, and laughing. Covered in sweat and thirst, mother would laugh.

Barefoot and brown, a bunch of blonde headed kids having the time of their life.

Our cows were stabled on the ground floor. That's where the barn cats hung out. Mother, would squirt fresh milk at the cats and they would drink the stream of warm, fresh milk.

Ah, memories, sweet memories. And in the silent, private place in the glen, where I would preach in Finn to the forest animals. It was a life time ago.

[Texas Songwriter]

You can't buy those remembrances. They are unique and they are yours to hold and to keep and to recall when you wish. I don't think I have one bad memory or observance about any barn. I love barns.