Not so long ago this was farmland, this steep hill that rises above a community just outside of downtown Pittsburgh. It is still as quiet as it looks, though there is a four-lane road far down in that valley that carries traffic into and out of Pittsburgh. Hawks solemnly circle, a bit of winter wind buffets the brambles and whispers among tall grass as the elderly farmhouse slowly falls to pieces; even the ancient pine tree, planted as a windbreak when the house was young, no doubt, is just a stump with its height broken away, perhaps what created the hole in the slate-shingled roof. Not a big house, but just enough. Who knows what spirits are housed there in what remains of a place that once protected people from the elements, provided them with shelter. Sometimes it seems right that an elderly home falls of its own accord, instead of being broken and battered and buried, so it can release its memories one by one
Here are a few other derelict houses:
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An abandoned and derelict house stares defiantly toward the road, the very fact it still stands, though tattered, an indication of its strength. Its siding has lost its paint, its windows their glass, and one by one the muntin bars loosen, angle, and fall from their casements, the interior is open to the elements, but the house will stand until the last board falls. The legs of an old metal swing set creep into the edge of the image, an idea that someone, somewhere, remembers this place.