Nothing sturdy. Windsock beside the pole barn just waiting
for a breeze. Mud daubers whispering below the roof eaves.
The whitewashed, weathered tongue-and-groove boards could give any day.
Chancy just tapping the front door jamb, farmhouse that fragile—
nothing sturdy. Windsock beside the pole barn. Just waiting
for some farmboy to chuck a rock, send it crumbling into
the heaps of deposit bottles, Depression and Wheaton
glass in the cellar. The last Station of the Cross: the dust-
mark from an up-turned horseshoe that once hung on the lintel.
Nothing sturdy. Windsock beside the pole barn. Just waiting.
