De-fencing
De-fencing Not a sword but a T-post, blade sunk deep not in stone but North Georgia drought that may as well be. If I manage to dislodge it I will not be king but one finger closer to freeing the field from the rusted grip of the old fence. It’s late October, air thin enough to believe in stories that slice to reveal the raw beneath what's summer-soft. All hail the shaggy neck of fields uncollared, the dog set free to wander off, the wait, the weight, the late- evening return at last unleashed to be love crowned in grass-spur and spittle.