your own backyard

across the road there is a perfect little hollow of twisted old trees. the cows congregate there in the shade when the sun is bright.

they look like perfect climbing trees. the kind with wide sloping limbs that aren't too far from the ground. the kind you can lean on. stretch out on. i desperately want to climb one of those trees.

so, nobody's watching right? it's just across the road. go climb one. stare up into its yellowing leaves and ponder the meaning of your life. just do it.

but there's a fence.

barbed wire. not the easiest kind of fence to get over.

when i was a child fences were just another part of the world. my friends and sisters and i would slide under barbed wire fearlessly and run through whomever's garden was on the other side. we climbed lots of trees.

but i'm not a child anymore and fences aren't just another part of the world. they mean division. they mean ownership. they mean mine. they mean no trespassing. and since i can read all these meanings in simple barbed wire i am responsible.

so i go on my walks along the narrow little road and i watch those cows and they watch me. and i think about why i shouldn't dare the possibly torn clothes and scratched arms and just make that fence a part of the world. all i want to do is sit in a tree. i won't hurt the cows. promise.

honestly it wouldn't hurt anyone if i hoped a few fences and traversed a few yards of someone else's pasture. i wouldn't feel guilty about it.

would i?

well, guilt is just another part of the world too. fences and trees and cows and guilt. and me.

i try and make my own fences. it might appear to many that i'm just here to tag along, to follow the crowd. to be led around like a puppy. but i draw lines.

none of the fences out there along the road are my lines, but they're lines i respect for now. as long as they can't keep the sunset behind a fence, i think i'll be okay.

there's gotta be a tree on this side of the fence i can climb. i just need to find it.