The ground was hard and frozen, but the dirt around the wood was loose.

The wooden stake was clean and bright.

It smelled faintly of fresh pine.

The pink plastic ribbon was tied perfectly and completely untouched by the harsh winter weather.

Someone had driven the stake into the soil very recently, maybe just yesterday afternoon.

“These look brand new,” I said.

“Fences fall down.”

“They don’t fall down in a perfectly straight line.”