The Bird on the West Peak

One evening in late February I drove west into the farmland, out past where the developers haven’t reached yet. 

Parma, Idaho. 

I pulled into a turnout when I saw this barn. Who built this barn? What had it held? Livestock? Dances? Children tumbling in the hay? Teenagers sneaking a kiss?

Who and what had entered and exited the door in the foundation? Dogs, cats, raccoons? A wife hiding from her family for a few minutes of peace? A farmer leaning against its firm bricks lighting his pipe?

It all settled me. Why? I can’t say.

The bird on the west peak and I witnessed the sun sink into the trees.