As I opened my car door, a hawk screamed from his perch. He had a small rodent in his talons and was none too happy that we had interrupted his lunch. The old granary was in a bad way; the roof on its backside had succumbed to the elements, collapsing into the floor beneath. With the gusting wind, it whistled through the broken windows of the yellow house, stirring my imagination and images of the housewife in her kitchen, cooking up supper for her husband working in the wheat fields not far away.
The old church may not survive another winter, its foundation having given way and it listing dangerously with the wind. I could only feel the presence of those from yesteryear at the church yard. It wasn’t inviting, neither friendly nor fearful. Just there. The rest of the town was still, home to only the birds and the wind.