Stockade.
In the soft murkiness of a warm night, I am drawing near to fearlessness. Words follow words without motive or animus. Simplicity makes the most sense inside a backyard realm constructed with cedar and concrete. The arms of an eastern hemlock wave overhead, shadowplay on the fence panels, the small tight cones sporadically fall, springing off shoulders, resting in the patches of grass below where we nobly plié in a pile of beer cans. These unassuming walls retain tolerance and repel inequality. A freestanding fence, justifiably self-righteous and stoic. We exist for each other.
This warmth is a treasure that cannot be quantified. All across the Hudson Valley, we are staking out our spaces on the soil, waiting for the full roundness of green and heat to come crashing down upon us. To surrender and submerge in a deluge of humid, sweet breath.