What Hands

Staring at the silky waves and sweating through my button up, I realized that there was a fence in front of me.

What bands cut these posts? What force carved out these chunky, aged, moldy wooden slabs that have withstood decades of weathering to provide a sense of security for those of us who have sat on this peak?

What pain was in the thrusts of the axe? What subconscious memories of trauma and anguish provided the effort needed to swing that heavy blade? Whose hands, bloodied and bruised, calloused and steeled?

Or maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was just a person. Empty of mind. Clear of thought. Swinging away and building this fence. Maybe they’re sitting on their porch in Utah. Having long since forgotten about their once monumental swings.