A girl could stay busy just picking up nails and steeples in the road.  And I do.

With any short walk I usually come home with a handful of what my daughter has named monsters.  They are actually called steeples and are used to hold barbed wire to the post.

Over the last one hundred years or more, fences have been fixed, moved and adjusted; the steeples get lost one way or another.  I’m finding them.

When the wind blows you can be sure another will appear after many years of hiding. Some are broken, others are splintered, they are often rusty, weathered and worn.  Still, others appear young and vibrant.

Like us, they each seem to have a story to tell.


8 thoughts on “Storytellers

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