Barn Story
BARN STORY
A century and a quarter old or more,
Its steep roof hangs from one long rough-sawn beam.
Later extensions lean against the walls
Like tired foals huddling to their mother. Inside
And out, it’s a geography of ventures
Tried and used up: abandoned nesting boxes
Line the top floor, sad curls of feather drifting.
I saw the room in use: a kid supposed
To be learning the farm business gathered eggs.
His dog, a shepherd, drove the flock to corners
While he collected, calmly jamming back
The furious roosters and the short-legged hens.
Two years he gathered eggs, then left the life
To join a rock band. Horse-nicked and heifer-chewed,
On the ground floor the stalls hold piecemealed engines,
Moldy seed pots, crates for vegetables.
The metal shed next door housed a prize bull
And a prime beef herd until calamity struck:
Half-sized calves, a dwarfism gene. The sire
Was barbecued, cows sold, a few small sons
Sent to the university. One thinks
Of storms and fire, of hoof-and-mouth or markets
Defeating a stout barn and muscular experts—
But the quirk of a molecule! Herds, flocks and coveys
(They once raised quails) have passed; the denizens
Stabled here now are big machines, high-tired
And dull in faded green or gray or red:
Tractors, a grain screw, a twenty-clawed rake,
A massive harrow, and looming over all
The bull of the herd, the elephantine gleaner,
Two stories tall, its teeth laid down beside it
Like the old farmer’s false teeth by his bed.
(The big old red barn in Lansing, New York where my family abnd I lived for some years…)