The old barn stands silently in the weeds, a reminder of once prosperous times, decaying with time. The red-rust streaks have almost overtaken the dull metal gray that when new, shown silvery-bright in the sunlight.
Piles of once upon a time harvest equipment covered with painted white streaks left behind by myriad sparrows and other residents of the tall weeds mark the last resting place of the retired. Crumbling failures of technology replaced by better ideas, these formerly proud marvels testify to the evolving genius of creators who molded them to their purpose.
This island among the straight rows of residue left behind by the giant green monsters of modern, efficient agriculture is merely a bookmark in the evolving saga of feeding the world. A period to a single sentence in the history books but, an obstacle to advance, this tiny refuge to small denizens is only temporary.
Soon, even these tombstones of bygone days will fall to the needs of the many fulfilled by a few.
Chris
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