Chain Link
The chain link around my yard is woven through with garlic mustard and fescue in the places where it stops the string trimmer. On one side it has a dead moat where my northern neighbor sprays. One side has a path where my southern neighbor’s dog runs.
Perched on it in the morning is a juvenile robin, red breast still ragged with its baby feathers. Perched in the evening is an eastern phoebe, tail wagging up and down as my cats chatter to her through the screen door. White-tailed deer walk through the always-open gate, but the turkeys prefer to take ungainly flight up and over. They unfurl unruly fans of dark feathers, powerfully lifting their heavy bodies over the galvanized tubing.
The chain link marks the barrier of civilization. One side, unenthusiastically mowed dandelions, creeping Charlie, and clover. The other side invasive species, chunks of concrete, rotting logs. Through the fabric of the woven metal, I can see the spring pools that burst mosquitoes and chorus frogs. Deeper in the shade past that veil, come trills and hoots.
One side near the gate is bowed in, maybe from a deer leaning against it to scratch off a tick. A few of the edges are curling up near the ground, pushed in by the woodchuck that travels paths not marked off by the property lines. A silver maple fell hard on the far corner, crumpling in the pole and stuffing its raggedy leaves through the holes.
A boundary, a barrier, transparent and sharp, separates things. The way things are versus the way they ought to be. I can see through the gap in the chain link like the hole in a hag stone. A world where the barriers are permeable, where life can osmose across the membranes.
