I called it “The Last Barn” even though it isn’t. I’ve been taking photos of it for some years now, and it sits out on a beautiful road near the Vermont-New York border. Vermont and New York are not the same thing, they are two very different things with two very different identities, and this old barn sits right on the line between the two.

It is falling apart, the doors are off, there is junk and debris inside, you can see right through it to the hills and Green Mountains. I think of this old barn as a warrior, hanging on, reminding us of our past, cautioning us not to forget what has come before of us, and is rapidly vanishing.

I know it is not the last barn, but it might be a spokesbarn for the others.