About

Last summer I was living on a farm on a small gulf island on the west coast and painting in the hayloft of an old barn. The barn was like a cathedral. Light and wind leaked through the wooden planks and swallows nested in the rafters, circling above me while I worked. The old woman who owned it lived in a house I could see from my window. She lived there alone. The farm had become overgrown, quiet. The bones of her cows were buried in the yard. I dug them up one day. Milking stools were strewn in the yellow fields. She recited the poem to me about the moonlight and the ruined house and I …