Building Fence

Sometimes we like to do something for the story we’ll tell afterwards. Buy a ’58 Pontiac, climb a mountain in the dark. Lamar tells dirty jokes with class, knows how to wait awhile, bend a syllable and savor the laughter. We go on with our absurd work, building a fence miles long waste of steel and strong straight lodgepole pine but even I don’t pine over it anymore. We’re self-acknowledged children, fence is play and livelihood also, but something cheerful as sunshine for all the death it costs. There is so much life a little death doesn’t matter. We stretch our muscles the men feel like men, the women feel good too. We stand around, watch a young rabbit one morning.