2poles: 1hole

I walked back to my car. The gravel path seemed longer than before. The forest seemed quieter. And for the rest of the day, I kept glancing at my reflection in windows, checking to see if the sky behind my eyes had changed.

I knelt. The hole was shallow—maybe three inches deep—but it contained that other sky entirely. A wind stirred the ferns, but the sky in the hole didn't ripple. It stared back at me, patient as a locked door. 2poles 1hole

It had. It was the bruised purple one.

I haven't told my girlfriend. She already knows. I walked back to my car

The brochure called it Two Poles, One Hole —a minimalist art installation tucked at the end of a gravel path in a forest no one remembered to name. I went because my girlfriend said it changed her, and because I had nothing better to do on a Tuesday. And for the rest of the day, I

I stood up, dizzy. The poles looked the same. The hole looked like dirt again. But now I understood the name. Two Poles, One Hole wasn't a description—it was a riddle. The poles were the watchers. The hole was the answer to a question I hadn't known I was asking.

The brochure didn't mention any of that.