Hay dust filters through the sunlight, drifting in lazy circles until it settles back on wooden edges.
Ancient grain, a pile of manure (well-aged), mice scent, and dried out leather add to the ambience as I wonder at the memories held in these log walls. Memories that don’t belong to me, yet I can feel them just the same.
I sense their ghosts in the warm air.
The thousands of brush strokes from a curry comb flinging sagebrush and dust and cockleburs to the floor. Fragments of blankets and saddles and halters and breastcollars and bridles adorn the mangers and posts and walls.
The milk cows that must have stomped and shifted their weight, earning choice words from the milker.
The teams that pulled wagons and sleds and equipment long rusted. Their harnesses now so crispy and dry that they will never grace the back of a horse again. The jingle of their traces has gone still.
The cats who waited for a warm spray of morning milk for breakfast, mewling and rubbing against a worn denim leg.
Evidence shows they all were here once.
Today it was just me, and my dogs, and the whisper of hay dust drifting in the sunlight.
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