A Barn (mourning)

Cold and exhausted, I came across a barn, which at one point had been red, but now timeworn and fatigued, had taken on a color not unlike a species of desiccated autumn leaves. The landscape was barren and unkempt, made entirely of an open field of dead shrubs, expanding in infinite directions. A sleepy willow tree oversaw the barn and surrounding field; long, cracked branches twisting and reaching inconsolably across the grey sky. Atop the barn sat a rooster shaped compass, the wind batting it east and west, never disclosing. I pulled my coat up to shield my face from the unrelenting wind and decided to take refuge in the barn. With a relatively forceful tug, the immense door opens and lets out an eternal groan, trying to dissuade me from entering and disturbing the barn's slumber. I step inside and stomp my boots on the ground. The air hangs damp and smells of earth, musky and penetrating. Exhaling deeply, I could see my breath billowing in front of me, lingering until it slowly evaporated into nothing. The inside of the barn had two levels, the upper a loft, and the lower made up of nine pairs of stanchions that faced each other. Now empty, a space once living and breathing with livestock and farm-hands was fallow, fruitless and seemed to be abandoned without warning. In the corner of the first stall sat a bucket of cornmeal, slowly transforming into dry-rot. The vigor of this barn was gone, stripped away. Smells of hickory and fresh, clean straw were replaced with sodden decay. This barn was loneliness, nothing.