Updated: Jul 27, 2021
A wooden, gray fence extends for miles over meadows into white alpine mist. My foot is heavy and my legs, weary. My wistful wish for the buoyancy of the deer as it bounds past turns to a blow of longing. I gaze back. The serpentine river of fencing curves over files of hills beyond sight. Each picket, a marker of time held. Each, made insignificant by the volume of them. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
As I walk, I run my fingers raw along the wooden posts. Ignoring the stab of slivers, I feel for gate latches. With a worn out shoe, I kick one of the sharp stones that afflict my path over the fence, and it lands with a soft and unsatisfying thud on the pastoral side. Fixed on figuring out how to get there, I am holding fast to the day that I hop the fence for sweet reprieve and don't ricochet backward just as quickly.
A tired prayer fades on my lips. I seek the consolation of my Father's presence. He looks me square in the spirit and warmly insists, "I am not over there. I'm here." A stream that I didn't hear before, babbles, and I join the birds in song, because they know.