The Open Gate
Spawned Questions

There’s a wide-open gate
  out in the middle
of nowhere
  hinges rusted brown
  with years
Who left it open?

Gates, as a rule, are closed, or they are in the process of being opened to then be closed, or they are in the process of being closed—especially those set in fences that stretch across open fields; we don’t want the animals (sheep, cows, lions) escaping now, do we?

I remember catching minor little hells from our farmer-neighbor for leaving a gate or two open—a habit I soon grew out of as a result of the farmery brimstone. Always close the gate behind you, first a mantra then a law.

But there it is, in the middle of pretty much nowhere, and wide open.

First spawned question: Has no one noticed this open gate before now?

I saunter up to it and try to shut it, but the hinges are more rust than iron and will not yield even a fraction. Frozen open would be the term.

Several scenarios scuffle for recognition, me, me, me, pick me: some running children, laughing, chasing, flinging the gate open, rushing through, intent on where they are going not where they have been. But wouldn’t someone have noticed this gate left open and closed it?

Or?

Some animals are very smart; perhaps some Nobel-prize-caliber donkey figured out how to open the gate and so made his escape, never to be seen or heard from again. Not as donkey, anyway. Still, why did no one notice?

Or, someone did close the gate, but carelessly. The wind, or some other donkey, did the rest. Still, why did no one notice?

Or, or, or.

And wide open. That’s not the wind’s, or chance’s doing. It stands so deliberately open, cannot stand more open.

Another spawned question: Would that not make it an intentional act? A long, long ago now frozen intentional act. Perhaps the final act of the farmer closing things down and heading for the city—too far in debt to rely on his not-at-all-profitable farm to dig him out; a pity, it’s been in the family so long. So, to hell with it then, I’ll do exactly what I’ve never done before, I’ll leave the gate wide open. Goodbye to three hundred sixty-five (some years sixty-six) pre-dawn mornings a year, goodbye constant worry about the weather so constant it felt like an ulcer. Goodbye and good riddance.

Or it is a magical gate that knows how to open and close itself that one day, just after opening wide plumb forgot how to close.

Or, or, or.

All these questions scuffling for recognition: Me, me, me. Take me, answer me. Eager little wonderings swimming for the surface.

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