I hear a noise at night coming from the old barn.
Too loud for mice. A raccoon maybe.
Or could it be the ghosts of horses.
Phantom cows are another possibility.
Years ago, there was a herd that spent its winters here.
Could be a homeless person also.
Ever since the city founds its way
to what used to be nothing but farming country,
there’s been stuff stolen, a window broken,
some spray paint on the rough brown walls.
So why not the ones who have no place to spend the night.
A roof over the head is not to be sneezed at
despite the heaps of ancient hay.
There’s always the wind as culprit of course.
It loves old tottering buildings.
Nothing like getting under the eaves
and terrifying the roof.
Or whistling through the door
and shaking some rusty bolts down.
I’m lying in bed and listening,
this thing I do before sleep.
I’m taking a measurement of the world
before I leave it,
my ears putting everything in its place
from traffic to the ticking of my clock
to my own shallow breath.
An odd noise holds up progress:
like a fire-cracker, thunder,
neighbors scrapping.
A barn rustles even more so because it’s my barn.
There’s even a chance that I’ll get up to investigate.
A noise in the barn is me throwing on
slippers and dressing gown.
It’s the ping of a mattress,
the creak of a floorboard and stair,
the turning of a key,
the clip-clap of feet on a cement path.
The noise in the barn is the noise I make.