Half a Turn on the Turnbuckle

I cut my glide along the dry dirt verge where a low wire fence borders the garden. Suspended two inches above the ground was a small galvanized turnbuckle, its open center frame holding two opposing screw eyes in tension. I lined up my front tire with the bottom wire and eased to a stop. Leaning low over the handlebars, I braced the edge of my left wing against the ridged center sleeve. A firm, deliberate push. The barrel rotated half a revolution with a quiet, gritty metallic creak, drawing the twin threaded bolts a millimeter closer into its hollow core. The wire hummed, taut and clean.