I’ve been fascinated by this abandoned house for years. I found myself checking the light on the house at different times of the day, even different times of the year.
It’s an amateur photographer’s nightmare. Nestled in the curve of a hill, huge trees throw shadows in the spots the hill hasn’t already claimed. But there is something about this house that draws me in, every single time.
It was someone’s home. I imagine it being lived it, the windows unbroken, the sky-blue paint whole and uniform. I imagine a child, playing, planted oak seeds around the foundation of the hen-house.
It belongs now to the trees.