There is an old farm in southern Indiana. It is an inconsequential place. Forty acres of land that is divided by a ditch and a tree line that runs between two small fields. There is a grove of trees that borders the first field to the south. A larger “woods” that forms the eastern border and covers more than twenty of the forty acres.

On a small hill near a gravel drive there is a grey pole barn that has an old Ford tractor sitting inside on its dirt floor. Many years ago a boy and a dog (or two) could often find a covey of wild quail on one of the tree lines to the west. It was thick cover back then, and rare to find a shot worth taking.

The farm was a happy place in years past. A place for an old man to take his grandchildren to teach them how to follow bird dogs through a field. A place for small children to become lost while on epic adventures in what seemed a jungle, but was little more than a thicket.

The fields are rarely visited today. The happy memories fade like the morning mist on a cold December morning. The ghosts of 4 or 5 good bird dogs still watch over a secret place far back in the woods. A place that is sacred to the few living people who still know of its existence. Some days seem long, but weeks and months become shorter each year. Even the concept of sacredness fades. Time and memories both crumble upon closer inspection. Our existence reduced to no more than a mote of dust in the fading autumn light.

Next Chapter: Faux Haiku