the finer line

I sat on the porch of my brother’s house staring out at the backyard. In the near distance I heard the pounding of thunder. The thunder wasn’t a component of the clouds, it was component of the city. It was, like everything else seen and heard, enveloped by the urban world. The land lines had started drifting in years ago as the buildings went up, and now the clouds are part of the city’s domain until they pass out of the county line.

I had left the roller rinks and the water tower behind and moved into the vacuum of the city. Now, nothing made much sense.

My brother had gone out of town with his wife and kids. I was stopping by each day to feed the cat and check up on things. The backyard was big and full of green grass, so I’d go out to the patio and sit and look out – clear my mind, trying to enjoy it.

Anytime I have a chance to enjoy a backyard or city forest or open land, I take advantage of it. Apartments are relentless. The walls are like concrete and the bedroom, a barrack. It’s amazing people can live in so much worse for so long.

In my brother’s backyard, things happen. Like the mosquito swarms and the birds lifting off branches and the light seeming to make noise through the trees. I can feel the neighbors making dinner. I can smell their discontent. The school across the street looks abandoned and ghostly during the summer break. The grass grows high and only a child-ghost inhabits the interior, afraid too, of the thunder.