Singing at the Silo

To the Old Silo we run

evening's cool kisses tickling our cheeks,

three sisters beneath the Iowa blue.

The ripening sweetness of corn

breathed in,

breathed out.

As we pass, it whispers hello.

Into the tranquil barn we climb,

enveloped by musty stillness, quiet warmth.

The silo mostly empty but for

a few pigeons roosting above.

At silo's edge, balanced precariously,

three young voices raise.

Tender music floats up,

echoes down,

and bouncing off old, rounded walls,

surrounds us.

At Grandma's silo

these sisters sang.

For a few summers,

at least.