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.
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.
I blinked. The reflection held.
So I did.
I haven't told my girlfriend. She already knows.
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.