It was very September. I was also very trespassing, shooting at what I've come to call, "End of the Bog Farm." The propery was vacant, lonely, and still. Just in case, I was watching the mist. A trespassed tresspass is best answered by a quickly tendered handshake. I was watching for a person. I didn't expect another barn to appear in the mist just there. And it was red. The barns I was shooting were distinctively tan.
