In the Barn During a Thunderstorm [8.16.09]

The sky flickers like an off-channel TV screen, the black and white fuzzy flashing. Sunflower cover the horizon, their shadows playing with me in the dark, casting lies against the side of the barn. I swear I can see the outline of a man, hunkered below their heavy drooping heads. A gust of wind makes them bend and shake, playing tricks on my eyes again and again. Am I still alone here in this barn? I become nervous, pulling my Winchester pocket knife out, opening it up, and squeezing it in my left hand while I write. It was all so strange, sitting on the lowest bales of hay, watching the heat lightening on the East side of the barn. The chickens are much bigger now than the stout fuzzy bodies they had a month ago. They softly fluff their feathers and cluck under their breath, the straw beneath them rustling as they stir their feet. The rain on the barn roof came down in a light mist, until finally, the skies opened up and large dense drops fell and splashed to the wheat fields and barn below. The wind blew in through the broken windows and whistled through my ears, tossing about my paper and all the tufts of hay that stuck out awkwardly and messy from their bales; frail bodies shaking.