Walking the fence-line,
on a hot, thirsty day.
I mend the barbed-wire here and there.
The sun-hot metal turns my hands red.
The dog gets in the way
but cares about the work we do together.
It’s nice to have a friend.
Not a cloud in the sky,
and the fields are too dry.
The rickety stalks click and snap together,
when they should rustle gently in the wind.
“Oh, well”, I say.
“I can’t change that.”
“I can change this,”
as I turn back to the work.