Sitting

It is cool, in the seventies, this is the place where I spend much of my time at home. My reflecting pool without waterfall or brook. The hum of the city surrounds me, the comfortable familiar silence of the distant rub of tires under the drone of motor vehicles, the insect screech of the electric weed whacker in the hands of a neighbor three houses down and across the street, the crack of the nuts falling off the oak next door onto our roofs and the tiny front yard. Not anything like the wide open beauty of the north lands where there are fewer people living in square miles than live on my block of perhaps three hundred by two hundred feet. People walk by with their dogs, doors open and close up and down the street as cars pass thirty feet from my open porch's sanctuary. The many birds, crickets, squirrels and chipmunks break through the silence. It's good to have a place to be alone.