thispresentsojourn

i often sit on the backyard steps leading to my kitchen door to engage a tobacco taste or quiet observation [though many times it is both]. the steps face my garage, which brings to completion a wide, right-bordering gravel path where my car, derrick, rests. it appears that this furtive garage has been obsolete and in disrepair for years, and i have forbidden myself the volition to peek inside fearing that secret-disclosure equivocates existence-foreclosure.

to its side is the rear lawn’s most proud expanse, measuring in at the size of the typical trolley-car. here, the rye has such an abstruse kelly-chroma that if you were raise one of its blades to a magnifier you’d discover how deeply inward the green spirals, creating a shade so richly thorough that it moves above and below itself and through and around – so overly saturated that it becomes alienated in a circular self-profundity.

on the left periphery of the yard is ellsworth’s solemn tree, whom i have been calling Stanley for a good while now. Stanley is a noble and respectable member of the oak family whose long, hovering arms, suits him particularly well as watchman. under Stan’s sapient [yet quiet] protection, the yard and its dwellers rarely suffer from heat exhaustion, and although he can be vaunting in his authority, we mostly leave this unmentioned because his role is essential to our comfort.

also at the left stands a man-made barricade of cedar upon which stan always leans, roots content in a cross-legged candor. Stan is quite regarding of this bulwark and it appears he has found cordial company; these two have the beautiful sort of relationship that requires no word at all yet remains unquestionably symbiotic. stan, gently leaning. the fence, steadily supporting.

the most remarkable expression of this relationship takes place each day around 5 pm. if my work schedule allows an early escape i just might reach the stone plotting in time to behold the spectacle. in this late afternoon hour, Stanley and his cedar-counterpart initiate a game with the Sun, during which the Great Light-Source performs a threatening dance at the cedar’s top edge. Stan is quite aware of his opposition’s doddering age but does not let on his confidence too quickly. it is this charming wisdom about him that i find so admirable.

near the denouement of today’s contention i see the victorious, wooden allies smiling [and laughing a bit, since the day has called for wind]. the Sun has grown tired – his dance is done – and for the next two hours he sinks with sorrow and disbelief behind the neighboring houses. in their common appreciation, Stan and his stable-cedar-friend neglect to notice i now sit indian-style, novel-browsing, soaked in their chilly shade.

as Stan shakes his arms to rid himself of the sweat from fierce competition, he whispers in the windblow, “you’re welcome.”