The farm was down a long, muddy truck, far away from the main highway. When I saw the farm there were tidy, packed, bales of hay that rested in a neat array. For nearly one hundred of years, the farm had been nestled on the side of the hill next to the babbling creek. I saw the water tanks which stood to attention like three rotund guards. When Tom was rolling around the hills, he got caught in the long shadows of the late afternoon sun. There was the old barn was home comforting, cosy and always busy with its inhabitants.
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