In a field behind a dilapidated barn stood a pitchfork partially buried, rusty yet strong. It could still hold a shine, although presently it was overshadowed by grime, and its tines weren't so deep that a little boy couldn't dig it free.
Rodney Allenby happened to chance upon the corroded quadrifurcation on the hottest day in a stream of hot days at the height of August and immediately got to work liberating its teeth from the stubborn hold of the rock-hard dirt.
He couldn't free it however and the force of his attempt spiraled the mighty fork to heave a bump on the top of Rodney Allenby's head. Although he was knocked senseless, the pitchfork didn't cause any lasting damage, but it had knocked some sense into him that he didn't possess before.
Rodney realized that some undertakings, no matter how simple or straightforward they may seem, needed some serious figuring first. And so, he decided the next time he ventured to dig something new up, he'd make room for the pause that could afford him easier access to wisdom than the harsher knock on the head.
Posted for Poetry Pantry @ Poets United</a>