The Fence

by Michelle Read

He straightens
towering above me
wipes the sweat from his face with a rag.

"Rocks," he says
and I drop them
one by one
to form a ring around
the timber in the hole.

It's rocky country
so it's easy to layer
dirt and rocks
dirt and rocks
Dad tamps down the stones
with the blunted pipe
a bell-filled song.

But it's rocky country
so when he sights down the line,
paces off the distance
and drives in that shovel
it's work enough
to make a grown man cry.

But not my Dad.
He's on post number 87.