Mark's Pages

September 11, 2004:

Barbwire fence strung between low wooden posts, long abandoned, long rusted, yet still striking, as much for its anachronism as for its beauty.

Barbwire fences between wooden posts. Fascinating, especially the gates with their simple wire-loop latches. There's nothing like this at home.

Nothing like the endless horizons of rolling hills, without buildings. Or the constant buzzing of insects; or the millions and millions and millions of mosquito bites. Or the smell of wind without sea tang; or the smell of chickens, or the outhouse.

One day my grandfather stopped to kill a snake in the road. I remember dust from our tires, and I remember him carefully striking it, carefully, precisely, once only, cutting it in two with the sharp end of a shovel.

What can you see from the top of the trail? The present? The future? Yourself?