Splattered drops are all around, pouring down like water from a charger, held up and constantly falling on your head.
You have made the two by eights stacked on three rows for footing , your hair and shirt and jacket is soaked; one hand holds the handle of the bucket of freshly pulled milk tightly, the other gripping the door.
The roofs’ flashing pours the water down, and just through the open entry, your feet are met with the woven rug, lying between you and getting dry and your face is filled with senses of warmth, and food, and readiness of the house, the protector.
The milk container is handed off, your boots pull off in two wet strokes, and your hair is pulled back, the strong scent of freshly brewed coffee, permeates your senses and you feel as if you left but have come home again.
The one who has kept the house so clean, the food on the table, and the warmth of the fire burning into the evening smiles, and you smile back, no words are spoken as the rain pounds the steel plate loudly and often. You are home again.
Ralph Peck
Photography by Chris Hall
Eastern Oklahoma
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