Fences

I like fence posts, especially the ones that haven’t been machine cut but are just lengths of wood, branches or twisted small trunks, gathered miles away then set in holes in a row along the highway, strung together with impossibly long stretches of barbed wire. They don’t do much to contain the mountains or the wide open fields or the expanse of sky. Man’s effort, for what? Fences mean nothing to the spirit of this place.

Yellowstone NP

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