Fences Fences

Below my bedroom window lies a row of backyards like neatly-packed juice boxes, each lot the same length, an exact rectangle juxtaposing another lot by their longer sides where wooden fences stand, separating individual backyards. I turn to my left and I can see as far as the fifth lot to my left. The lot to my right has a tall twig for a tree and the lot to the right of it is a bit wider than the rest because it lies at the end of the street. From up here the fences look short and I fancy I can hop over each fence one by one by one and hop one by one by one back to my lot like hopscotch. I tap the veneer with my index and middle fingers, skip, skip, skip, how easy it looks from up here, how fickle and unprotected.

The air is damp. It rained last night. The wooden fences are soaked from the foot up. They look like pointy shadows with layers of black and chestnut and pale green. The fading of the wet dark parts into the dry light parts is quite gothic.