Fired Lake

The lake is situated at the foot of the hill where runoff pisses in the water, leaving its brown spreading trail of waste. Every time it rains the lake gets more polluted, less clear, until the muck reaches critical mass and, globbing together in microscopic islands suspended, sinks, disappearing to the bottom. Atlantis in miniature. Yesterday on the top of the hill, today a colony lost, buried alive beneath the dregs, to spend eternity in oblivion, never to see the light of day again. Its fate is sealed by nature, by gravity. The lake's bright mirror only shrouds the pain beneath.

Barn in Love

Yesterday the barn was old and weathered. The roof sagged in a permanent grimace and looked about to collapse under its own weight. The paint, red-brown chips flaking to the ground sprinkled about like so many scabs was only slightly more appealing than the broken teeth of windows' long-gone glass, shards scattered. The ground was muck bristled with coarse, hewn hay, about a three-day growth. It was a lifeless place, a hopeless place, the crumbs left from an era of prosperity and plenty.

Today that building gleams in the sun, the sagging roof resembling a comfortable hammock, a relaxing place to spend a summer day cradled in tender arms. The lack of paint gives an antique look with a polished sheen almost silver like fine hair in the sunlight. The diamond glass glints and reflects the beauty of the world around it like a picture in a picture. The barn sits full of life, full of economy, a promise of prosperity for the farm. The ground prepares itself for planting. Vestiges from last year's crop decay to fertilize the new one. Moisture is soaked in slowly, finding its resevoir below, ready to be called upon at a moment's notice, a hedge against drought. Today is new life.