A broken place
Broken is subjective right?
Dust piled on old milk machines
Cement blocks stacked next to old feeders
A place
That groans under the weight 
Of hours and hours of cold fingers and less than satisfactory conditions 
And that's
Putting it kindly

A roof
That has felt feet of snow
Sheets of rain

Windows
Now covered in generations of cobwebs and oceans of the sky
Soiled floors, leading to possibly flooded isles
Wet hay that can’t be resurrected, and it's like you can see the dollar bills being burned right in front of you 

The sound of life
That is so pure but yet so unreachable at times
The smells that puncture your nose and break your senses a realm of reality
Tractor ruts and mountains of mud caking the 45-inch tires that drive into the ground, turning the green fields into brown rivers

In a blink of an eye
It's 1995
And now it's 2020
And yet you keep going
With the sweat dripping uncomfortably down your back and the dogs barking, singing their own songs of happiness, of joy, and of hard work, as they run back and forth around the tractors and through the fields
That old Ford truck you had that once made you feel so alive as it kicked up dust as you drove by the yellow house at the top of the hill, is now dilapidated behind the barn, yet whenever you walk by it, it still speaks to you as it did all those years ago

“I’m here” 

And you see
Generations of life
They speak to you in different tones
Each one with their own message
Their own story

You can’t afford to slow down but you can take it in
You can take it in from the time that sun crests over the mountain
From the time the sky draws the curtains and the moon rises to watch over you until you awake to do it all over again

It's 3 in the morning and you pull up the stool, that has been the unsung hero of your everyday work
It's a bit broken
But broken is subjective ... right?