I am sitting in the backyard under
the oak trees on a beautiful spring day
with the dogs. We just went for a walk and
now we are relaxing, mowers in the
distance, the hammering of a new roof
install a few houses down, traffic from a
distant highway, and underneath all of that
thrum, the chirping of some indeterminant
birds and the clicking of nearby hummers.
The crows are quiet for a change. The big
dog lounges in the grass, while the neurotic
one ambles around aimlessly, nuzzles
her way through the dirt, looking for something
to chew on. She’s got a couple of spots
where she always digs. I have no idea
what she’s looking for. Maybe 30 years
ago I sat in a different backyard
with a different dog and maybe a cat
doing the same thing, nothing, listening
to birds and distant power tools and traffic,
marveling at the greenery around me
despite the industrial noises. Not a lot
has changed. Everything has changed. I’m still
thinking about words to write and wishing
I knew how to identify these flying creatures.
I’ve always loved them, but I’ve never been
good with the names of things. Certain things I
remember. Other things never stick.
From each neighborhood, I remember the
route we walked with the dogs. I remember
the shape of each house. And I remember
each backyard almost better than I remember
the inside of a home. Like this morning,
I was trying to remember the upstairs
layout of the first house we ever bought,
and I was having some trouble.
There are some things I miss about that place
and things that I don’t. I guess I could say
that about every era of my life thus far.
There are things I miss. There are things I don’t
miss. Right now in the backyard with these dogs,
even though circumstances in a lot
of ways could be better, in this moment,
I don’t need anything. I don’t want anything
other than this.
michael jarmer 