Memoir: Saturday, August 8, 1987
Looking out across the big back yard to the fields and creek beyond. All of it shrouded in a surrealistic light beneath a cover of pewter gray clouds, fog snaking its way along the creek banks, hugging the trees.
To the west-- large groves of trees surrounded by gray mist.
Sitting on the front porch, on the cool pavement, squatting between a plush lilac bush and an overgrown evergreen tree: rain drops hanging precariously from the needles of the evergreen tree. Suspended and still. Not falling. Mot moving. The big white barn-- hollow, still, quiet, empty. The stalls-- no sounds of horses moving around, restless. No sounds of them feeding on grain, or the clomp of their hooves on the pavement as they're led in and out on the cement paddock. The barn seems enormous empty.
The house looks funny, too, with almost everything out. A kind of barren shell. No longer really home. I'm glad my last day here is gray and cool and misty. My favorite kind of day.
I look to the south, out to the big open pasture and half expect to see the quiet forms of horses, grazing. There is nothing but empty green expanse.