The tin roof of this old barn
leaks news like rain and flaps
in a pretentious storm of words
it tries to shed as we huddle
in the dry with what we believe—
the sun will come to green
the dirt and repair our senses,
and we will sing Hallelujah!
rejoicing long into the night.
drycrikjournal 
Love this little poem John. It is still such a joy to have your words greet me every day. And photos. Thank you….
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Thank you, Heather. They are getting shorter.
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A dove found a safe place to get some sun.
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