The compost is flawed. The imagination sees it as it might be in an ideal form, soft, friable and without a single stone, or large stick, or bit of wood, or unknown things of uncertain origin. But I suppose the form of compost reflects the personality of the compost maker, and here where I live there are clearly a number of imperfections.
Quite how a table fork got itself into the compost pile, I'm not certain, and
when a person's just a tad on edge because it's the big Salamander that
hibernates in the compost pile, finding a table fork can be unsettling. It's
handle caught a glint from sunlight, that looked exactly like an accusing eye.