Red Barn

Once it was colored an autumnal red now it is a russet prop for the sunset. The land has stacked evening around it, a delving dusk has laid down years of richly plowed shadows. Within each cranny and niche, each time-worn grain, a soft twilight abides even under daylights ferreting glare. Seen against a late ebbing horizon the barn blooms beyond its timbers, it deftly fills-in the blush of any half-painted sky.