I have this strange affliction. Barns talk to me, especially old ones, those that are tilting and falling down, as so many of them are. They seem to open their eyes and mouths to me, and they whisper of acceptance and some sadness, as if they know they are not needed anymore, and noone will repair them anymore, and they are worth more as sold wood than as barns. New barns are plastic or aluminum and they do not rot or tilt or collapse. Say goodbye, these barns tell me. We are leaving the world with dignity. And they are.