You may someday find me here
among the cattle, in the branding pen,
around a fire or find my fence repairs
and wonder why I took so long
to wrap my splices—stack them
either side of rusty wire like dallies
on a cotton-wrapped horn—drops
of blood and sweat at each tangle
without gloves, young fingers strong.
Built after the war, damn-near
every fence was old when I got here,
got to follow hurried hopes of holding
for the moment, got to cussing
those before me. I learned their work.
How I hated those first ten years
of fixing fence. But someone will say
I must have liked it towards the end—
usually choosing to work alone.
drycrikjournal 
Ripeness is all, as the poet said.
Guess those barb wire fences are our modern version of those old stacked stone walls in New England and the Old World.
Generation after generation mending and strengthening in the tracks of their forebears.
Thanks for the daily nourishment of drycrikjournal.
🙂
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