The fence that marks the property line between our farm and our neighbors’ woods is hardly a fence at all. Rusted wire drawn between fat lighter posts has — at various points — drooped into uncomfortable hammocks, and, at others, flattened itself completely on the pine straw covered ground. I don’t know the hours that I have spent roaming those woods, picking my way carefully over fallen trees, ever on the lookout for — depending on the season — snakes and gopher tortoise beds.