A Gust of Silence
Grain bins. Simple structures with a brevity of design: Hold up the sky but keep all the other elements out. Nothing but galvanized metal and bolts. No windows, and the door might be big enough to walk through, if you're lucky.
Most buildings are intended to withstand the pressures of the outside world. These are engineered to resist force from the inside out. Strong, if put up correctly. If not, the constant weight and pressure of the dense heavy grain inside can make the walls slowly buckle and fold up on themselves, as if the walls have become molten or fabric.
They are never empty, even when there is no grain in them. Because they are usually dry and tight, they are valuable space; used for storing all kinds of things: tack, handed-down saddles, an old soft chair, hay, sundry parts, pieces, tools. Memories and expectations. Burdens as heavy as any grain.
Ours holds a place to workout. I've scooped enough wheat out of grain bins with a scoop shovel for this to seem appropriate. They hold onto exertion, sweat and hard work like a clenched fist.
Even when empty they are full. Full of dust and quiet. When you open the door to an empty bin you can be startled by the gust of silence that comes out. It's a resonant echoing silence. Sometimes I'll climb the ladder and open the round hole at the very top, and then climb the ladder down inside like a spider. In the quiet black the jarring circle of light moves in a slow arc across the metal walls and sits, on the wheat, like a tired, sleeping moon.
On an old abandoned farmstead I pull the screwdriver out of the hasp, and walk in the door of a long unused bin. As my eyes adjust I see the floor is covered with a thick dark layer of scat, dirt, and dust, and when I kneel down I see that the scat is littered with feathers and the skeletons of hundreds of mice. Frail and thin white bones scattered everywhere, and skulls with big empty eye holes still hoarding their tiny yellowed teeth.
You can view these wondrous things here, in the grain bin photo gallery.
Friday, October 22, 2010 at 07:08PM
Reader Comments (2)
They hold onto exertion, sweat and hard work like a clenched fist.
one of the best lines I've read, true poetry
...a tired, sleeping moon. I love that description and your photo of it. Your ability to capture the beauty and mystery of life on the ranch is inspiring. Thank you, Ned!