Recordings

The house and barn have surrendered, burrowing under the loose dirt of the sun. Echoes run from house to barn, from barn to house, a ritornello hurried along on the skirts of the wind. In the ruined barn, decay finds its own language, children still run here. A transmission has leached from puttering feet; it rattles the bones of embalmed mice. A soundtrack of texture running from barn to house - from house to barn.