Once a colt has . . . been . . . taken away, a part of its heaven stays here, wandering from ghost to ghost barn — Julia Wendell, “From an Abandoned Farm” Brittle weeds in the horse pasture reach above the top fence rail. Wind chimes in the empty stables clink and clatter in late October chill. Trees have turned, spilling like slow fire down the hillside away from here. Across the valley, winter fields’ emerald cover crops flow between stands of hardwoods and brush. The sky is a dull ache, a week-old bruise that won’t heal. Mud puddles in tire ruts where the trailer had backed up to the stables behind the house, scarring the ground in departure. Junk and debris scattered outside in the drizzle speak of panicked haste, bored vandals, the bank’s neglect: plaid shirt and a Carhartt coat left draped on a fencepost, satellite dish face down in the grass, an old tube television, screen shattered, marking the driveway by the dented garage door like a tombstone. Cowboy boots caked with dried manure stand frozen in a two-step by the foyer closet, kicked off after the final round of chores. Strewn on the floor, a 4H poster project on horseshoes. On one wall, a Mexican proverb: It’s not enough for a man to know how to ride. He must also know how to fall. A banner spelling Sweet Sixteen droops over the dining room table. Underneath a chair leg, a crushed party hat. They cut birthday cake knowing the locksmith was coming with the sheriff and eviction papers. Knife through icing. The next morning, cold math snaked its way up the hill slow as a funeral procession. Two vehicles: a county patrol car, lights off; behind it, a service van full of doorknobs and deadbolts. Outside the main bedroom window: a knotted American flag lashed tight to its pole, stars and blue canton choking against hollow metal under pewter clouds. Shreds of tattered red and white stripes flap in the breeze, halyard and snap hooks pinging an S.O.S. to an indifferent sky.