Sentinal

This old barn sits silently about 100 yards from the Hilliard bike trail, a part of the autumn landscape on a sunny October day. As I came upon it recently while rollerblading, it occurred to me that the barn has been one of the few unchanging characters here, probably for more than my lifetime. If its walls could speak, would they tell of days long gone, when trains used to make their way by, back when this was a rail line instead of the paved trail it now is? I can almost see the train cars, day and night, flying by when the barn was new and maybe painted red, hauling coal, cattle, or cars to far away places, a caboose the last sight as each train faded into the distance. Or perhaps the tale would be of corn and wheat spreading as far as one could see where now there are subdivisions with new homes, swing sets in the backyards and rose bushes where wildflowers used to grow. What was it like, before the roads were laid and the people came in great numbers, back when the sounds of the day were mostly birdsong or the rustle of the wind in the drying cornfields? Or when the lights at night came solely from the moon and stars?

Whenever I am out on my blades I always have music; moving in rhythm with different songs is dancing on wheels. But often I stop, as I did this day, to turn off the music and hear only the sounds of nature. Sometimes it isn't possible if a car goes by in the distance or a plane flies over. But as I stood, contemplating the changes this area has witnessed, all I could hear was the sound of the wind and the birds. And I wondered; when I am gone, will this old barn remember me too?