I stared at the left pole first. It was smooth, cool-looking, with a single hairline scratch running up its side like a vein. The right pole was identical, except for a faint smear of rust near its base. I looked at the hole. Nothing. Dirt, maybe roots. The air smelled of wet moss and my own boredom.
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. 2poles 1hole
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. I stared at the left pole first
I blinked. The reflection held.
It had. It was the bruised purple one.