12/18/2023
We move hay in the old barn with new siding, shifting it from upstairs to downstairs. Brian puts the bales on the slide Mitchell tacked in place. I receive them, carry them across the empty space, stack them against the wall.
The air fills with dust as we work. Light slants in through the windows. Stray strands of grass cling to cobwebs. The palettes on the floor shift beneath my weight. There is an old horseshoe on a nail near the ceiling. One of Arlo’s? Or is it older than that? What horse’s foot was it tacked to for a time? Who forged it, shaped it, nailed it in place? Was it that same person who, later, pulled it free?
There are stories everywhere. And mostly, I cannot know them.