There is a fence. It runs across a field that stretches farther than the eye can follow—a thin line drawn across an expanse that does not ask to be divided. It is not a forever fence. Its reach is finite, and its limit is marked by the last post.
At first glance, that post is unremarkable. Same material as the others. Weathered by the same seasons. Painted or unpainted according to the same forgotten decisions. The wire grips it with the same insistence. It stands in line, part of the structure, part of the intention.
But its balance is different.
Every other post is held in place by equal tension on both sides—a quiet equilibrium. The last post feels a singular pull, backward, toward the long line behind it. The strain gathers at its top, a reminder that this is where the fence stops insisting on itself. Only the first post, miles away, knows a similar asymmetry.
From its position, the last post sees the field differently. It sees the land not as two halves but as one continuous sweep of earth. The backward pull at its crown is met by the forward push of the soil around its buried base—a counterforce that keeps it upright even as the fence’s purpose thins to a whisper.
If the ground is firm, the post stands straight, indistinguishable from the others. We rarely notice the difference in stress. We assume it divides the field because the fence tells us it does.
But the field was never divided.
When I reach the last post, I do not discover a new field. I discover the old one, revealed. The post remains, the wire remains, the distinction remains—but something in the observer shifts. The fence no longer appears to split the world; it simply marks the limit of a particular idea.
The first post established a boundary. Distance and time reveal its reach. The fence was never infinite; it only felt that way from the middle.
Beyond the last post lies no rebellion, no triumph, no loss. No dramatic crossing, no sudden liberation, no fanfare. Only the quiet recognition that reality extends farther than the structures we use to describe it.
The field continues.
About johndiestler
Retired community college professor of graphic design, multimedia and photography, and chair of the fine arts and media department.
A Work Progressing 
The Last Post
There is a fence. It runs across a field that stretches farther than the eye can follow—a thin line drawn across an expanse that does not ask to be divided. It is not a forever fence. Its reach is finite, and its limit is marked by the last post.
At first glance, that post is unremarkable. Same material as the others. Weathered by the same seasons. Painted or unpainted according to the same forgotten decisions. The wire grips it with the same insistence. It stands in line, part of the structure, part of the intention.
But its balance is different.
Every other post is held in place by equal tension on both sides—a quiet equilibrium. The last post feels a singular pull, backward, toward the long line behind it. The strain gathers at its top, a reminder that this is where the fence stops insisting on itself. Only the first post, miles away, knows a similar asymmetry.
From its position, the last post sees the field differently. It sees the land not as two halves but as one continuous sweep of earth. The backward pull at its crown is met by the forward push of the soil around its buried base—a counterforce that keeps it upright even as the fence’s purpose thins to a whisper.
If the ground is firm, the post stands straight, indistinguishable from the others. We rarely notice the difference in stress. We assume it divides the field because the fence tells us it does.
But the field was never divided.
When I reach the last post, I do not discover a new field. I discover the old one, revealed. The post remains, the wire remains, the distinction remains—but something in the observer shifts. The fence no longer appears to split the world; it simply marks the limit of a particular idea.
The first post established a boundary. Distance and time reveal its reach. The fence was never infinite; it only felt that way from the middle.
Beyond the last post lies no rebellion, no triumph, no loss. No dramatic crossing, no sudden liberation, no fanfare. Only the quiet recognition that reality extends farther than the structures we use to describe it.
The field continues.
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About johndiestler
Retired community college professor of graphic design, multimedia and photography, and chair of the fine arts and media department.