In the morning, I drove by a bunch of pale yellow daffodils, sitting beside the road, in the culvert, all alone, they stood out in their vanity, among the weeds. Further down the road, the gate to the cemetery was wide open, on this cloudy day. Gray stones popped up against green grass. Littered with small American flags, some commemorated heroes of the past. This is where Amelia, from Gurleyville, was buried. Then, I came upon the old barn, dull and dreary, with a caved in roof, almost completely collapsed, a telling sign the structure’s end is near. And there was a wooden fence, by a house. Unpainted, with dried ivy growing up its side, it made me wonder if the plant will ever come alive. Simple words, are these, from notes to myself, of the things I saw through the lens of my eye.