There was an old car down the way. It sat abandoned for decades, a ghost of its former self. The sides riddled with bullet holes. .22 calibre for the most part, but others. One man told a story about how it all came to be. I listened. Seems like he had the car for a 1965 something and it was in fact a 1964. Someone had driven it there and left it, though at the time it was in regular if not good condition. The owner of the farm found it, down, way down and practically hidden in the bush by a small stream. The farmer notified the police and somehow they traced the information from something in the car or the plates themselves. Its seems word came back that the guy was in Florida. I don’t know if it was a jail thing or not. The police, so the story went, - decided it was a case of ‘finder’s keepers,’ and let the old farmer have the car. Somehow he sold the good parts and left the body there. It still retains the color- a sort of gold. The original farmer and the owner are perhaps ghosts, spectres, - themselves. Maybe they met and had a laugh about it- compared notes. What did you get for that engine anyways? - asks the old owner.
And so the path goes. There are things sprouting and buds being borne into infancy that shall
But I could not discern where he was.