. . . or more properly, an oriel window in this case, I think.
As is the case with each of the photos that I have taken of these abandoned farm houses, I can well remember when they were going concerns. At one time or another when I was a boy, I was in them all accompanying my parents on visits to the families who lived there.
This house has since been razed–earlier this summer, as a matter of fact. I heard a racket echoing across the countryside and stepped outside the chicken house. Across the valley of corn, I could see the bulldozer at work with the end loader standing by to load up the scraps on a truck. The feeling was akin to having my hand on the side of an old dog who has suffered enough as the vet gives him his final injection.