I'm sitting here in the back yard of my humble abode and in the front yard umpteen big, steel vehicles speed by every minute. But here, in the back yard the wheels on pavement and the engines' unnatural vrrooms of the front yard become dulled by the crickets' drone and the buzzing of bees and the flutter of wings of the back yard.
As my eyes are drawn to the dozen young birds trying out their new wings from atop my little shed roof, my ears, hearing the sirens from out front, become slowly less assaulted and more important are the visuals my eyes take in out back.
The peppermint is vast and encroaches upon anything around it. The Russian Sage is teeming with pale, purple blossoms and seems for yet another season, out of my control. Those plants, three to be exact and three of which I do not recognize by name are doing remarkably well judging by the monstrous stalks and leaves and crazy little incidentals that I still cannot figure out.
The cardinal that I despise each morning for its monotonous and piercing call seems now at home and welcomed in my back yard. Even the dogs, not belonging to me yet relying on my distant movements to quell their noise seem okay, right now. Indeed, my own beastly canines, no doubt are feeling the same sense of empowered conduction, back here.
They move left, and the neighbour's dog pounces left. They dictate in their yard, how he reacts in his. And so goes on the natural course of life. They act and he reacts. They bark and he is quiet for a moment. He barks, and then all hell breaks loose.
Ahh, the instincts of the alive.