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. Dust muffles yet imprints step and skip, a written ergot that still keeps a voice in the stillness. Laughter trembles rafters, the faintest sound stirs up bygone quotes and responses. In the ruined barn, decay finds its 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.