I love taking pictures of old, dilapidated barns. There is something about seeing their faded skeletons– wood weathered and gray, roof tiles sliding off like water, pockmarked with holes where doors and windows once hung- that speaks to me of the passage of time and decay, of the inevitability of change. They are remnants of a former life, ghosts still haunting the land they once served.
And there are plenty scattered all over the countryside, still standing beside what are now major roadways. I am always drawn to them, to their spirits that seem to yet live in those bones, now raw, exposed and somehow enduring under the constant gaze of sun and sky.
Such old barns have witnessed season after season, year after year, pass, slowly succumbing to time and neglect, testaments to the journey all things must make of returning to the earth they were born from. I feel a bit dilapidated myself these days, broken down and worn, and I think they will now serve to remind me even more that all things pass on, give way to the new, for better and sometimes for worse. But change is always coming, just over the horizon.