dorothy terry | barn silo and john gun

Poetry Dispatch No. 86 | July 5, 2006

BARN SILO AND JOHN GUN by Dorothy Terry

I see him sometimes on my way
Home from work when
I take that back road to the lake
You can almost miss him if you
Don’t look quick and sharp

He’s sitting out there
On a rotting buggy seat
In front of a splintered barn
With listing cylindrical silo

A vast snow-covered field
Spreads out before him
His long legs stretched out
Compass straight
Point West

He is always perfectly still
A small bump on the horizon
Or a downed bird the wind
Shifting the feathers of his broken wings

Cast aside
At end of the day he
Waits for the sinking sun to show
Who knows?
It might swallow those purple clouds again.