One-two, buckle my shoe, three-four, shut the door. . . . Open the gates, lock the gates, sunrise, sunset.
Who is locked in, who is locked out, what is locked away? Do the spirits slip effortlessly between the posts, whispering past the chains and padlocks? Perhaps they are grateful for the quiet, the stopping of traffic and no trampling upon the ground. Perhaps the locking of the gates allows them to roam freely, safely, unobserved.