I follow Flo up the ladder attached to the wall of the barn into the hay loft. I climb though the small hole above me onto the thick blanket of old hay that carpets the floor.
Flo’s in a dark corner, I’ve disturbed her mousing. She runs to me kicking up hay dust.
The dust, swirling and specked in the sunlight streaming though the cracks in the barn wall, is suddenly alive. I take a picture of it before it settles down again.
There’s something magical about the hay loft. The high-pitched roof and hand hewn beams. It’s strewn with old broken chairs and doors, like something waiting to be discovered.