A Dark Day is Going to Come

On the night of his death, the farmer’s children painted the barn black by the light of the harvest moon.

By dawn the paint cans were empty, the bristles of the wide brushes ruined, caked together.

They’d torn up all the crops and set all the livestock free. The wooden fence-posts that surrounded the property were set ablaze. The fire would not stop. Even when a storm blew in from nowhere, it still burned.

Strange monuments made from spare tractor parts were erected all around the house. People came from miles to fall on their knees in front of them and babble.

Summer’s end, a flood washed half the town away. But the black barn still stood.

And it seemed to be growing.

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