The barn is made of wood, the cladding of pine planks. It's red painted and glowing in the low evening sun. The shadow, of the big poplar tree, older than the barn, is cast against the gable end and its topmost branches reach to the roof ridge and below that the lower limbs are shadowed in perfect symmetry. The trunk and its shadow are the precise straight perpendicular axis of not just the barn, floor to apex, but this exact cold autumn evening as well. The sun is at a level with both tree bole and gable end; balanced, poised, halted. Everything is caught and folded into the spirit of place.
A provocative harmony is manifested here, as if those zeitgebers - time-givers - of Circadian rhythm have switched attention to a century measure, away from day's cues and have lit up this relationship of elegant distinction, in which the man-made is stamped fleetingly with the poplar's seal of approval.