old fence post

The fur around its feet -
golden, shaggy, unkempt -
upon closer examination
might not be fur after all

Seventy years have passed,
twelve presidential elections,
the post has ignored politics
and the field has stayed the same

The border that once was
only holds on to imaginary
barbed wire, the scars of history
still carved into place

The cattle are long gone,
and the occasional deer
pays no attention
to the boundary that it did not make

The wind, the sand, the time
have smoothed the surface
only to reveal the knots
made by the tree before

The watchers pass by
back to the thorns and scrub brush
leaving the post
watching over the rocks