Their feathers are curled, and wrinkled and turned, their four body’s and eight ugly legs on the pieces of wood that are left from this rotted out roof, the terrible heads of red and black, scowling at the ground, watching for their next meal to appear in the road, and trust that they will have no problem meeting, and eating together .
The house it held a family, or families across the years. Their hearts and hopes and lives were tied, to the windows and the grass, and the ground that surrounded this abode, with their dreams and heartaches, their heartaches and the wonderment of being alive.
Lightning was such a part of their time here, their beds and their heads protected by the three rods of steel, holding their bodies safe, and bringing the electrical storms to their end, over and over.
The grass has grown up, the people have gone, taking with them their life and their love of the land, their cattle are no longer in the pasture, their horses are not eating around the plow and their harness is gone with the broken boards of the barn.
This house continues its journey through earth, all on the wings of the birds.
Ralph Peck
Photography by Chris Hall
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