There is a barn out on the marshes where I live. It stands alone and abandoned, where once over four hundred barns would have dotted the landscape, as far as the eye could see. It is one of a handful of marsh barns left in various states of decay. As opposed to many others who have fallen, this one still stands, despite the way it leans backwards. Many of its wooden shingles are gone, giving it a shaggy appearance. The two sets of double doors are missing, and you can look straight through it, to the marsh that continues on the other side. It’s a barn-archway. Inside, there is hay that must be ancient. There are bird droppings and an owl nest, and lots of carcasses and feathers. If anything out on the marshes is haunted, it would be this building. The Barn’s fate is sealed; soon it will collapse into a heap of old timber, nails, shingles and roof. And yet another piece of history will fall to dust, soon to be covered by sweet timothy, clovers and buttercups. The marsh will swallow it, like it has already swallowed hundreds. I love The Barn. Because of the way it leans, because of its missing doors, its missing shingles, its owls nest and even its carcasses. I love how the Marsh is taking it back, but I just hope it won’t take it back too soon.