Barn Fall

Photo Credit: Paul E Shinkle, © 2025, all rights reserved.

When the crows fled the eaves through the glassless windows near the roofline, on the east side, I knew the barn would collapse. Also because of the extraordinary experience of hearing Mrs. Heberdee, standing next to me, break wind.

Although startled by this breach of backdoor discipline, like the crows taking wing, I intended to pay her no mind.

“Excuse me,” she said softly, more softly than the precipitating crow escape that compelled her contrition. So softly that only I heard her, either time. Everyone else, equally aghast, standing in the tall unkempt grass, was too focused on the low barn rumbles, a sound as if long-sold dairy cows were snoring inside.

“Mrs. Heberdee?” I said softly, offering her an escape, if she needed one.

“I do beg your pardon,” she breathed, never looking away from the barn.

“I don’t understand, ma’am. Whyever would you need my pardon for anything?” Me, of course not wanting even to acknowledge that I had heard her tiny, inconsequential disgrace.

“It’s all so disruptive,” she whispered, as softly as milkweed down.

“It is,” I agreed. “It surely is, ma’am.”

“It is,” she said. “I mean, it is, after all, one of those things one must contend…