The old place in the woods.
What secrets are buried inside, tucked away
among ages of neglect, and a secret or two hidden away that only the more insistent
will find.
Pictured are the remains of an old
mill, sitting along the banks of a creek. Fifty yards or so upstream a mesmerizing
cascade will lull you to sleep if you stay long enough to be cast under its
spell. The mill’s water wheel is covered by wood siding that has conveniently
slipped down like a night cover, hiding it from potential vandals.
Shadows from tree limbs moved about across the mill, their dark gray blending with the aging of the wood. I kept expecting to see a face from the past look out a window, and then turn away as if to say you will have to come find me to hear my story.
I would like to know the story of the old
truck, and the last time it was pulled in and parked for eternity.
