Far out over the valley below where the old barn stood on the hill, the terminus of the irrigation ditch filled with water that provided nourishment for the cows was lost in the haze of the setting sun.
It was one of our favorite outings, to take country roads just to see where they led.
Wisps of her hair were highlighted in the fading golden sunlight, strands of her hair were ruffled in the evening breeze.
Her cheek rested against her hand which in turn grasped the end of one of the barn tools, and with her other hand she clasped the cross-member frame, her fingers just barely accentuated against the shadows of the planks in the old barn, slivers of sunlight slipping through.
These were the hands that I held.
These were the arms that held me.
But her touch, her embrace, are now only memories.
Country roads take me home.
