Invisible Fence

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Invisible Fence


The weatherman did not account 

for how cicada chirrups 

raise the forecast of extreme heat

another ten degrees, and I did not account 

for how long Georgia clay retains the rain 

when I told Wayne at Dependo Rent-All

we needed the Ditch Witch 

just four hours. Every twenty feet 

or so we stopped and Dad 

used the broken handle of a hoe to clear 

the blades of clay. We’d blink 

the sting of salt away and sip 

a High Noon while eyeing what’s left 

of the acreage, then trade 

and drag another stretch. It was a day, 

and looking back a good one, accounting 

for how the smallest chink in the circuit 

shuts the whole thing down

and we lose what we always thought 

would be there, invisible 

as a bluetick reclining on the welcome mat.

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