It’s just an old grain elevator.
But at the right angle, blurry behind the trees, it might be a castle,
the winter-dead trees the entrance to some forbidden forest,
the rusting hulk of a barge the last vestige of a sunken navy
the hidden railroad bridge a lowered drawbridge
whose struts become the scaffolding upon the battlements
a place where fantasies are born.
And also nightmares.