I love old barns and old barn windows, they never really die, they fall apart slowly, and with dignity and grace. Most often, they simply fall over, sometimes farmers knock them down with tractors and leave them disintegrating piles.

I love this window down the street, and each Fall, I wait for some of the leaves to fall off the vine so I can look in and see its secrets. All old barns have secrets, but they are sworn to secrecy, they will never reveal them, the ghosts of a score of farmers live inside.

My Leica has been eager to meet this window.