In the barn leans some thing almost there. In the very frame, red paint flaking, doors askew, old tires in a heap, and what else? -- lots of mouse nest in the air.

Limp lengths of fence line lifted, and wading in through the grass, (how hoppers zig and zag) you felt it then as you do now. Almost there.

In the faded corn powder and littered straw, boards creaking under foot, something remains something. And that something is almost there.

Turned like the light, deflected and dull, by the corrugated tin above, bundled bits of baling wire and home-made tools on nails hung, rust your fingers for looking so bare

Stabled in silence, the narrow pens, the wooden ways, burnished smooth by years of hide and hand, stubborn as life, something.

Something -- that with a lingering stroke over these course dusty shelves, you find yourself again -- almost there.