a_writers_fence pony Rectangles of light on weathered wood; In unexpected places found the antidote to shadows. Squinting into the sun, all I can see are silhouettes Of horizontal runs and line breaks. Except for knots and cracks, it's a blank surface running parallel to my home. These days my mind is empty, a surface left stricken as the wind dies immediately after the storm. Every few feet, though, you'll find worthy reflections; If only you'd narrow your sight. 240303 what's it to you? who go blather from